Fanfiction Addicts and Review Whores
by Hoodfabulous
Summary: Bella Swan is a closet fanfiction addict who lacks romance in her life, so she decides to create it online. After transitioning from fanfiction reader to fanfiction writer she butts heads online with TonyMazen69, a well-known smut writer in the Moonlight fanfiction world. What happens when the two bickering fanfiction writers meet during a three-day Moonlight Fanfic Convention?
1. Chapter 1: Admission

**Chapter One: The First Step is Admitting**

The basement of the local church in my tiny town is small and dim. The scent of coffee and donuts waft through the air, and I briefly wonder if this is used as some sort of torture device to lure us from one addiction to yet another. The idea of abandoning my long-time hidden addiction for caffeine and sugary treats is a tempting one, but I know even coffee and sweets wouldn't squelch the need for my secret vises. Hell, I'd even started shamefully smoking cigarettes as a tool of avoidance. It doesn't work. Instead, I now have TWO addictions.

There is a semi-circle of metal chairs in the middle of the room. Haggard looking guys and girls, some older than I, some younger, sit in the chairs. Their faces droop and are lined with distress and hard times. I probably look just as rough. When I got dressed earlier tonight I noticed the dark shadows beneath my eyes and my brown hair, once full and shiny, now hung limp and lackluster past my shoulders.

A tall man in his mid-twenties stands near the front of the room. He looks vaguely familiar, and it doesn't take me long to identify him as Mike Newton. Mike Newton is quite a catch in our small town. It's probably the blonde hair and sparkling sky blue eyes that draw the women in the most, or possibly the fact that he's a business owner. Mike owns Newton's Sports Bar, and I immediately find myself snorting over the irony of the situation.

A sport's bar owner in an AA meeting. How ironic.

Mike frowns at the sarcastic grin on my face. He's probably remembering the torment Rose and I constantly inflicted on his dweeby ass in high school. He motions for me to sit among the group and I do. The other basement dwellers are unfamiliar to me, which means they are not locals. Although AA is supposedly anonymous, everyone knows there are no secrets in small, Southern towns. These people are probably intelligent enough to switch towns to hide their shameful addictions.

Now, why didn't I think of that?

Mike, apparently, is the chairperson of this illustrious club of troubled souls. He stands in the middle of the semi-circle of chairs, glancing at our distraught faces as he speaks. When he meets my brown eyes, I advert my gaze to the styrofoam cup of coffee clutched in my hands. I not only try to avoid Mike's stare, but also the smell of body odor drifting from an extremely red-faced man to my right. This dude looks as though he hasn't seen a tub of water in a year.

"Do we have any newcomers who'd like to stand and introduce themselves?" Mike asks.

My eyes dart up from the dark swell of liquid in my hands. Mike meets my stare head-on, pleading with his eyes for me to stand. I take a deep breath, knowing that this was the reason I was here, to admit I had a problem. I stood, sat my cup of coffee on the metal chair, and carefully smoothed out any wrinkles in my black dress pants.

"My name is Bella Swan," I begin, taking a deep ragged breath as I met the smiling, friendly faces of my basement companions. "And I'm a fanficaholic."

Relief. Sweet relief. My body was consumed with it. A weight lifts from my chest and I even find myself smiling a bit. Thank you, Lord! The folks in the room stare at me with confused eyes as I grab my coffee and attempt to sit back down, but Mike quickly interrupts me, freezing me in my actions.

"Bella, what is a fanficaholic?" he questions, placing his hands on his hips and cocking his head to the side as he studies me. "I've never heard that phrase."

"Oh, I apologize," I tell him, giving a small little giggle as I thoroughly confused the group of strangers glowering at me. "Fanficaholic. I'm addicted to fanfiction. _Moonlight _fanfiction, to be exact. Ever heard of _Moonlight_? It's a series of books written by Stephie Mayner. It's all sparkly vampires and forbidden love. I started reading the fanfiction for the series around four years ago, and I've been writing fanfiction based on the series for about two years now. I'm pretty sure I'm addicted."

The room is, at first, stunned silent at my admission. My eyes dart nervously around the crowd and I'm met with judgmental glares. Some people are now snickering, no doubt concluding I'm a total fanfiction dork, which I am. How dare they! My face heats up as Mike gives me an incredulous gaze.

"Is this some sort of prank you and Rosalie have cooked up?" he asks suspiciously. "You do realize this is a group for individuals seeking help for their alcohol addiction?"

Mike is obviously remembering what troublemakers Rose and I were in high school. Geeze, some people never let things go. So, I put a potato in the tailpipe of Mike's truck ONCE and he's still holding a grudge. Then there was the time Rose snuck a dissected cat from the bio lab and tossed it in the open window of his truck...

"No, this isn't a prank," I mutter. "It was Rose's stupid idea to come here. She said this would be a safe place; a place where no one would judge me. I guess she was wrong."

Those words caused the quiet giggles and snickering to diminish as the group members glance guiltily at one another. Angry tears spring to my eyes that I curse, because I may be a lot of things but I'm not a crier. Not unless it involves watching _The Notebook_...or listening to classic, sad country songs, but that's beside the point.

Mike tries to stop me as I leave the room, but I shrug him off. I mutter some stupid apology about the potato in his tailpipe that causes him to slow his pace behind me. I shove open the glass doors and burst into the night, refusing to acknowledge the increasing shuffle of feet behind me.

"Bella, please wait," Mike pleads, gently cupping his hand around my elbow just as I make it to my old, beat-up baby-blue Chevy pickup truck.

"No, it's fine Mike," I say, sniffing away the tears as I wrenched the door open. "It was a stupid idea to begin with."

"Hey, you said it was Rose's idea," he jokes with an easy expression on his face. "She's not the brightest crayon in the box, and we all know it!"

I can't help but laugh at his words as I quietly appraise him. Who would have thought nerdy Mike Newton would one day turn out to be so handsome? And smell so good. The scent of some manly body wash drifted in the stiff, Southern heat from the short proximity of his body to mine.

How the tables have turned, I think bitterly, chuckling silently to myself as Mike gives me a questioning smile. Mike Newton was the pimple-face bookworm in school who could never get laid. I was the girl popular only by association because of my friendship with Rosalie Hale, the hottest girl in school.

Now I'm Bella Swan, no longer riding on Rose's coat tails, but also not doing much of anything else impressive with my life. I was a freaking _fanfiction addict_ for Christ's sake! Mike had turned into a successful bar owner and humanitarian, helping those struggling with addiction problems. Overwhelming guilt flooded me.

"I'm sorry for the way Rose and I treated you in high school," I whisper, watching remorsefully as his smiling face falls slightly. "If I could take it all back, I would. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, Mike."

I climb into my old truck and fire up the engine. Mike stands a few feet away, watching me with a strangely wistful look on his face. He gives me a tender smile and a small wave. I smile back, although it feels more like a grimace. Slamming my foot on the gas, I chug out of the church parking lot and into the dark, hot night.

~h00rs~

The tiny white house Rose and I share is lit up like Christmas night when I arrive. I park my old Chevy, pass a few heavily-scented peach trees in the small front yard, and climb the porch steps, falling tiredly on the white porch swing. The chains clink and the wood groans as my body falls heavily on the swing. Rose, hearing the ancient truck pull into the driveway, walks out onto the porch to greet me.

Rose and I have been besties since the sandbox days. She's the yin to my yang. We're total opposites, but I guess the old saying about opposites attract is correct. Where I'm petite with soft curves, Rose is tall and fit from days on the tennis court or in the local swimming hole. I have pale skin that tends to burn and dark features; brown hair, brown eyes. Rose is tan with gleaming blonde hair and shiny sea-blue eyes. Rose is a looker and I'm just average. The only thing we really have in common is our fanfiction addiction, although mine is extremely more severe than hers.

"Where have you been?" she asks, plopping down on a white rocking chair, tucking her legs beneath her.

"I've been to my AA meeting," I mutter, throwing my arm over my eyes as I lay back on the swing and lazily using my right foot to shove the swing back and forth.

The desire to sleep is overwhelming, but sleep evades me. I haven't slept more than four hours in the past three days. I was knee-deep writing a new drama/romance and people were frantically demanding more updates. I'd survived on nothing but Diet Mountain Dew, sweet tea, and leftover chocolate candy from Easter for days on end.

"Bella, why in the hell did you go to an AA meeting?" Rose giggles, causing me to drop my arm from over my eyes and gaze dumbfounded at her smiling face.

"Because you told me to!" I huff, twisting my body into a sitting position as I glare at her. "I came to your bedroom last night and told you I think I'm addicted to fanfiction! You told me to go to a twelve-step meeting! When I told you there was no such thing around here, you said to go to an AA meeting! You said it was basically the same thing!"

Rose's shoulders began to quake in silent laughter. Tears formed in her eyes and poured over her pink cheeks.

"Bella, you know I talk in my sleep!" she gasps in between fits of laughter. "Oh, my God! This is hilarious! Wait! What happened? Did everyone laugh at you? Did they kick you out? Please tell me they kicked you out!"

"I hate you," I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest. "And yes, if you must know. They snickered and then Mike Newton kicked me out."

"Mike Newton?" she cackled, bending over at the waist as she laughed harder. "Please tell me Mike Newton's not the chairperson over the local AA meetings?"

"He is," I sniff indigently. "I apologized to him for the way we treated him in high school, not that you care."

"You apologized to that dork?" she gasped, dropping the laughter for a scowl. "How dare you! I'm not ashamed of torturing that loser in high school. Don't you remember how he spray painted 'for a good time call Rose Hale 555-2629' on the side of the field house right before the homecoming game senior year? I haven't forgotten it!"

"He only did that because you told everyone in school he played with My Little Pony's at your house in the seventh grade!" I reminded her.

"That was true!" she shot back, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

"So, you wanting to have a 'good time' wasn't true?" I question with a raised eyebrow.

The scowl drops from Rose's face as she gives me a smug grin.

"Of course it was true," she snickers. "Still is."

"That's what I thought," I mutter, scrubbing my hands over my forehead in tiredness.

"Are you going to get some sleep tonight, or what?" she asks with concern as she watches me. "We've got a busy day at work tomorrow, you know."

"I know, I know," I mutter, shoving thoughts of work aside as the ever present thoughts of fanfiction took its place.

"Well, I'm gonna hit the sack, Jack," Rose yawns, standing and stretching.

I nod, but make no move to leave the swing. Rose saunters inside, with a grace she naturally possesses and I so naturally lack. My fingers are twitching, but I hold still, waiting until I'm sure Rose is thoroughly asleep.

The minutes tick away and eventually two hours drift by. I know because I check the time on my phone every five minutes. The air is full of the choir of Georgia crickets and the neighbor's barking dogs. When I'm certain it's been long enough for Rose to get settled in bed, I creep inside.

The laptop Rose and I share is sitting at the desk in the living room taunting me. I pass it three times as I idly change into my pajamas and wash my face. When the agony becomes too much, I fall into the desk chair and power up the laptop, immediately clicking on my favorites bar and pulling up the fanfiction website I publish my fanfiction on.

Squeeeeeee!

I'm so engrossed in a new review a reader left me that I don't hear the soft padding of footsteps creeping up behind me. My face is inches from the screen when I hear the soft, gentle voice of my concerned best friend.

"Bella," she breathes, causing me to scream and jump about a foot into the air.

I turn, staring guilty at her with my hand pressed over my rapidly beating heart. Rose's face is no longer humorous or angry. There's nothing but true concern and sympathy dancing along her features. She's wearing a long, white, romantic silky nightgown, that, although modest, somehow makes her look like a porn star.

"Bella, I think you're right," she tells me, reaching out and tugging a limp strand of hair. "I truly believe you should slow down on the reading and writing fanfiction. It's taking over your life. You've resorted to sneaking around at night because you don't want me to know about it!"

I nod, slowly letting Rose's words sink in. She was right. I was sinking deeper and deeper into this fantasy world. I had to learn moderation. I must learn moderation!

"I'll try," I tell my best friend, in a voice laced with weakness.

Rose nods and gives me a small smile, but her face displays her true assessment of my words.

I'm lying and we both know it.

* * *

I thought it might be fun to write about some of the things I've noticed as both a fanfic reader/writer and incorporate it all into a fic!

I've read several fanfics over the years with Bella as a fanfiction writer, but never one with her AND Edward as fanfiction writers.

I'm writing this for kicks, so I don't really have a set schedule. In fact, I wrote this entire chapter this morning within two hours. That is the time limit I'm giving myself when I work on this story. My word count limit is around 2k, which is the shortest I've written, so I wanted to keep going after I hit the 2k mark.

I'm also using this as a training tool of sorts, because I am going to attempt EPOV throughout this fic. Y'all know I HATE writing EPOV, so this is a challenge for me ;)

This is also un-beta'd because AliCat is uber busy beta'ing my DSDW stuff, and NO this will not interfere with DSDW updates. I promissssee.

So, what do y'all think so far? If Bella is the Fanfic addict, does that make Edward the Review Whore?


	2. Chapter 2: Avoidance

**Chapter Two: Avoidance**

**EPOV**

It's been two days, two long days since I've had a shower.

I'm one stinky mo-fo.

"Edward!" my mother calls from the adjoining room where she's running around like a chicken with her head cut off.

I glare at the glowing computer screen in front of me, quietly cursing below my breath. I'm not cursing my mother. No, I'm too respectful and slightly terrified of my mother to do that. Any child of a woman born and bred in the South knows better than to disrespect his mother. I'm cursing because I know my mother, Esme Cullen, is about to force me out of my chair and demand I actually act like a human for a change.

"What is it, Mama?" I holler, running my fingers through my slightly greasy hair, cringing as a damp strand falls against my forehead.

"When's the last time you washed a load of clothes?" she demands, entering the living room from the adjoining kitchen and shooting me the Esme death-stare.

That stare has killed someone before. I'm sure of it.

"Uh, let's see...Friday, I think," I reply, swinging around in the swivel chair to face her.

"Edward, what day is it today?" she asks with a forced, patient expression on her face.

"Um, Monday?" I reply sheepishly, honestly having no clue what day of the week it is.

"Edward, today is Wednesday," she seethes, running her fingers through her strawberry-blonde locks as she glowers at me. "Un-plaster your ass from that chair and take a shower. Next, take the garbage out. Lastly, wash those stinky clothes before I go outside, pull a switch from a tree, and tan your hide with it!"

"You do realize you're standing in a penthouse apartment, right?" I laugh, dropping my smile as I meet her flashing eyes. "You'll have to take an elevator and walk to the park to find a tree."

My mother says nothing. She simply stares at me with her scary eyes, making my skin crawl. The way she glares at me reminds me of the time when a shifty looking man pulled a knife on me on a local Chicago public transit bus.

Except he was less terrifying than my mother.

"Yes, ma'am," I mumble shamefully, pushing myself from the chair and cringing at the sticking sound it makes.

Fuck, I'm disgusting.

I haven't always been this pathetic. At one time, I was a alright guy. I even had some pretty decent hygiene skills. That's before 'She Who Shall Remain Nameless' ripped my cold, dead, heart from my chest. It was also before my childhood friend, Emmett McClarty, introduced me to the world of_ Moonlight_ fanfiction, leading to my pathetic existence as a complete and utter review whore and eventual novelist.

What is a review whore, you may ask? A review whore is a writer who thrives on his or her reviews, constantly living in the sweet, sweet glory of the encouraging, thoughtful words of his readers.

The kind words my readers leave me fill the emptiness that _she_ left there. They push me to continue chasing my childhood dream of writing. I cherish each and every review my readers leave, even the little smiley-face ones.

If reviews were a dead animal and I were a dog, I'd totally rub my body all over them.

Disturbing, I know.

I hop in the shower and scrub the filth from my body. Toweling off, I glance up at the mirror and smirk at the man in the reflection.

_You still got it, old boy_, I tell myself with the signature Cullen grin.

Sometimes I wonder what my readers imagine I look like. Do they think I'm some short, old, balding guy with a bulging belly and a hatchet face? Or maybe they believe I'm not even a man. Maybe they think I'm secretly a woman, writing under the guise of a man's penname, like my buddy Emmett does.

My body is in good shape, because I go running at least twice a week. It's one of the few times I pry my stiff, slothful body from my desk chair. The long runs through the local park result in a lean, cut body that I'm very proud of. If not for the running I'd undoubtedly be a fat-ass, considering I pretty much live off junk food, when I_ do_ remember to eat, while sitting at the computer working on my latest novel or updating my current fanfiction story.

Just because I'm a complete fanfiction freak doesn't mean I'm some sort of troll. I'm confident enough to admit I'm a handsome guy. My height of six-foot, two inches was inherited from my biological father, a man I barely remember. I have his sharp features, including his high cheekbones, slightly crooked nose, and strong jaw-line.

The rest of my looks, the green eyes and reddish-bronze hair, came from my mother. Both of my biological parents have long since passed, but I'm lucky enough to have been adopted by Carlisle and Esme Cullen at a very young age. Unable to bear children, Esme suggested adopting a child from Russia. She's always had a strange attraction to the Russian culture. Carlisle readily agreed to her suggestion. After a long adoption process, they found me. The rest, as they say, is history.

"Are you finished in there?" Mama hollers, banging on the bathroom door, and shaking me from my thoughts.

"Yes, ma'am," I groan, pulling on a pair of shorts and a thin, v-neck shirt.

I throw open the door, letting the steam from the hot shower spill out into the hallway. My mother is standing there with a stack of folded, clean towels resting in her arms.

"You've got one load of laundry left to do," she huffs, shoving past me and stacking the towels on the shelf in the bathroom. "Do you think you can handle that?"

"Yes, ma'am," I reply, realizing that those two words are basically all I've spoken to my mother since she arrived at my house.

"Edward," she began, giving me a sympathetic smile and pinching my cheeks. "You're a handsome, twenty-six year old man, but all you do is engage yourself with writing your new novel and lurking around online! Get out of this big old apartment and do something! Call Emmett! Have some drinks! Find a nice young lady and make me some grandbabies. I'm not getting any younger you know!"

"How about a date first?" I snicker, rolling my eyes at her ever-present desire for children. "Shouldn't I wine and dine a girl first, perhaps? Then after a long courtship, ask for her hand in marriage? Or do you want me to bring some random bar whore home, jump straight in the bed, and impregnate her?"

"Do what you have to do," she mutters, punching me in the chest with her index finger to emphasize her words. "I want grandbabies, damnit. Fat grandbabies with red hair, pink cheeks, and leg rolls."

"So, what you're telling me is you'd prefer me to have obese, ginger children?" I ask with my eyebrows knotted in confusion. "Do you purposely want my imaginary children to get picked on in school? You're crazy, woman!"

"I'm not crazy," she sniffs, jutting her chin up. "I'm Southern. We're eccentric, not crazy. There's a difference."

"If you say so," I tell her doubtfully, wondering, once again, how my city-slicker father has managed to handle my sassy mother after all these years.

"Just get out of the damn house, Edward Anthony Cullen!" she growls between gritted teeth. "Don't make me call Granny Platt on you!"

I shudder at the thought of Granny Platt showing up at my house. Granny Platt lives with my parents, much to her disdain. She kicked up a fuss when Mama suggested she move to Chicago from their hometown in Kentucky. Granny Platt had started spitting and cursing at the suggestion, dentures clacking the entire time. She swore on her daddy's grave she'd never leave the South to live among a bunch of Yanks, but finally relented. Granny Platt is probably five-hundred years old, smells of mothballs, and enjoys slapping me on the back of my head every time I open my 'smart mouth,' as she puts it.

Before I know it, I'm bobbing my head and agreeing to go out for drinks tonight, anything to prevent Granny Platt from showing up on my doorstep.

My mother finally leaves and I breathe a sigh of relief. I finish where she left off, doing laundry and straightening the house.

The apartment I live in is monstrous. It was a gift to myself after my third novel made the New York Times Best Seller's List. I'd always dreamed of living a penthouse apartment, although I never imagined in my wildest dreams it would some day become a reality.

You'd think living in the lap of luxury would be enough to make me happy, but I'm not. I'm lonely, although I'll never admit it to anyone. I spend my days reading and writing, vainly attempting to fill a void that never seems to be filled. My mother craves grandchildren. I crave a woman to enjoy them with, and not just any woman. I crave _the_ woman.

I scoff at my own ridiculous thoughts. I don't even believe in soul mates, not really. When it comes to my parents, I feel as though they were just extremely lucky to find one another. The idea that there's one person out there for each of us is an impossible concept for me to grasp.

After cleaning the apartment, I call Emmett and suggest going out for drinks later. He readily agrees, always longing for a good time. Tossing my cell on the couch, I find my eyes inadvertently darting back to the laptop.

Scowling, I cross the room and busy myself by making a sandwich and then practically inhaling it. I glance at the clock after washing the dishes I dirtied, only to find that less than ten minutes has passed by.

There's no need of avoidance. I can't take it anymore.

Within twenty seconds I'm back on my laptop, finishing the last chapter of my current smut-filled, mobster-loving fanfiction story. The ladies love it, and I aim to please.

Once I'm happily satisfied, I shoot the chapter to my beta, JazzyPoo22. I chuckle each time I read my beta's name.

What a stupid fucking name.

Jazz has been my sidekick since the beginning of my journey into the world of fanfiction, back to my work of fiction that I eventually pulled and published into a full-length novel. He's also a good editor, even if he does call me a 'damn Yankee.'

I yawn and decide to kick it on Facebook for a while, at least until Emmett shows up and drags my lazy ass out to hit on some bar whores. Not that I'd ever bring any of those skanks home with me, thank you very much. I prefer my dick to stay disease-free, if you please.

The laptop screen lights up in white and blue as I click on my penname at the top of the page. I respond to a few random comments on my page and then, for some reason, decide to read the newsfeed.

Don't ask me why I do this. I hate reading newsfeed.

I'm a firm believer that, if you have a Facebook page as a fanfiction reader or a writer, separate from your real-life Facebook page, your newsfeed should_ only_ be devoted to all things concerning fanfiction. I don't mind posting teasers for my fics, or reading teasers for other writer's fics. The occasional banter back and forth between authors or writers is sometimes entertaining, as well.

Aside from that, I really don't give a shit if you're happy about the way your chocolate pie turned out, or if you're angry over the latest episode of 'Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo.' Go to your real freaking Facebook page to announce that mundane bullshit.

Okay, maybe I'm just a little jealous of the photographs of the smiling couples and their cute kids that everyone keeps posting.

Whatever.

I notice a name on the newsfeed that seems vaguely familiar to me; SwanLake RomanceLover. I snort condescendingly at the name. It's almost as ridiculous as JazzyPoo22.

Apparently 'SwanLake' is going through a rough patch in life. Either that, or she was drunk in her status update she posted the night before. I'm pretty sure it's the later though, as I read her status update aloud.

"Just went to an AA meeting and announced I'm a fanfiction addict! Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right? Hehehehehe!" I read in a sing-song voice, snorting at the end.

What. A. Loser.

The fact that her penname sounds familiar is driving me crazy. I lean back in my swivel chair, lazily twisting the chair from side to side as I glare at the screen. There's a sense of foreboding associated with that stupid name.

I lean forward and click on her profile page, which is very basic. It only tells me that she's an avid reader and writer on the same fanfiction site that I'm apart of. There's a whimsical photograph of a beautiful brunette, floating peacefully on her back in a dark lake as her profile pic. The girl's eyes are closed and her long, thick eyelashes rest against my cheeks. She has a heart-shaped face, and full, pouty lips. For some reason I imagine her eyes are the color of chocolate, although I'm not sure why.

My traitorous dick twitches and swells in my jeans, causing me to scowl. Am I really getting aroused by some random photo on Facebook? It's probably a photo she snagged from Tumblr, because I highly doubt SwanLake is the chick in the photograph. No one that hot truly exists.

I'm about to lurk around the fanfiction site we're both apart of to check out her stories when I hear the thunderous boom of Emmett's beefy fist beating on my apartment door.

Glancing down at my watch, I shake my head in shock at the amount of hours that just slipped by. Reading, writing, and Facebook lurking always makes the time slip away. I take a deep breath and shut my computer, shoving all thoughts of Swanlake aside.

I stand and adjust myself in my pants. Pocketing my cell, I briefly wonder how long it'll take me before I'm checking my email for story updates and review alerts.

Chuckling at my weakness for all things fanfiction, I open the door to greet my grinning friend. We chat and catch up easily as we enter the gold elevator. The two of us leave the building on a hunt for soft, sweet curves, tender skin, and full, pouty lips. Maybe I'll find a girl to take my mind off fanfiction, just for tonight. Maybe she'll have a heart-shaped face and endless brown eyes.

I can only hope.

* * *

Thank you for all for reading, and of course for the lovely reviews! I love all of your fanfiction confessions, so I thought I'd throw in a few of my own at the end of each chapter!

Shameful Hoodfabulous Fanfiction Confession: I prefer taking a bath over taking a shower. Why? It's easier reading story updates in the tub than it is in the shower!

*facepalm*

So, what do y'all think of Edward?


	3. Chapter 3: Grouchiness

Chapter Three: Grouchiness

**BPOV**

I'm engulfed in nothing but darkness...and pain. Pure pain is shooting through the right side of my face. Something cold and hard is pressed uncomfortably against it, digging into the tender flesh of my cheek.

I'm drifting between the state of dreaminess and reality. My dreams are filled with a man dancing the cabbage patch. His baggy parachute pants billow in the breeze from the giant, spinning fan propped on one corner of a lit stage. Neon lights flash methodically in my mind. Besides the tacky black parachute pants the man wears, he also has a severe case of bleach-blonde helmet hair going on.

My eyes are glued shut and there's a God-awful screeching sound somewhere nearby. It sounds suspiciously like the dream man's voice. It's utterly annoying and shamefully catchy.

I struggle to pry my eyes apart, smacking my lips together in the process. Eck! Morning breath. My eyes eventually become unglued, and my eyes dart around in confusion.

Yo! VIP! Let's kick it!

"What the..." I moan, raising my head from the pillow.

Something heavy is attached to my face. I jump up in horror, dozens of ideas of what it could be play through my mind. Has someone broken in during the night and implanted some sort of device to my face? Did Rose finally get tired of me leaving toothpaste all over the bathroom sink and punch me in the face while I was passed out?

Ice, Ice, baby. Vanilla Ice, Ice, baby.

A soft thumping sound causes my eyes to dart downward as the object detaches itself from my cheek. A sweat-covered cell phone rests on my white comforter, the pink and black OtterBox case silently mocking me from its cottony depths. I rub the side of my inflamed face in confusion, eyebrows drawn, wondering how the hell my cell phone wound up attached to my skin.

A vague memory of last night flashes through my mind. I remember lurking around on the computer until the wee hours of the morning before eventually dragging my sorry ass to bed. After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, I broke down and starting reading fanfiction updates on my cell. Apparently, I'd read until I passed out on top of my small, electronic lifeline.

Pressure! Pushing down on me! Pressing down on you!

Is that Vanilla Ice and...Queen?

"Bella!" Rose screams, banging on my bedroom door so hard that it shakes on the hinges. "Turn that stupid radio off!"

"Fine, fine," I grumble, attempting to crawl out of bed to switch off my radio alarm.

My legs are wrapped in the comforter. I struggle to remove them, to no avail. I grow angry; a result of many nights lacking in sleep and a sore right cheek. I begin kicking my legs in frustration, wrestling with the snow-white comforter. An image of the sea monster with long, spindling arms dragging me down to his murky depths flashes through my mind.

"Release me, Kraken!" I holler at the flimsy material.

The comforter ignores me, being the inanimate object that it is. I hit the floor with a loud smack, legs still entangled in the cursed comforter. The bedroom door flies open and Rose rushes in, bending down in worry, but not before slamming her fist down on the radio, shutting down Vanilla Ice's morning serenade.

"Are you alright?" she sighs, yanking at the comforter and removing it way too easily from my legs.

"I'm fine," I mutter, scowling as I stand and glance at my friend and room-mate.

Rose is staring at me strangely. Her head is tilted to the side, her eyes wide with confusion, then narrow as she stares at my cheek. Her gaze darts to the bed where my cell still rests. She snatches my cell, ignoring my protests as I scamper around attempting to remove the phone from her hands. Then she takes the phone and presses it against my cheek.

"Ha!" she boasted victoriously. "I knew the impression in you cheek looked familiar. It's the shape of your phone! You read until you passed out on your cell again!"

"Good job, Nancy Drew," I scowl, snatching the cell from her fingers. "What's you next case? The Mystery of the Missing TV Remote? Where's George and Bess? Making out in your bedroom?"

"George and Bess were cousins, you moron," Rose huffs. "Plus, George was a woman!"

"How am I supposed to know that?" I grunt, stomping to my closet and snatching my scrubs from the closet. "I read Bronte and Austen growing up, not a series of books written by a bunch of ghostwriters."

"Wait...Carolyn Keene's not a real person?" Rose asks, her pretty face wrinkled in confusion.

"Lord, help her," I mutter, unabashedly shrugging off my sleep shorts and tank in front of my childhood friend. "No, she's not a real person, Rose."

"You know, you've become a real grouch since you started writing," Rose remarks, inspecting her shiny, blood-red nails. "I think you should take a break."

Her words cause me to freeze. My lilac-colored scrub pants are halfway up my thighs. My mouth drops open and I stare at her incredulously. Is she insane? She wants me to...stop writing? Like, completely stop? The very idea of taking a break makes me twitch like a crackhead.

"I can't quit, Rose," I mumble, snapping back to reality and yanking the scrubs up over my hips. "I'm addicted. This is your fault! You're the one who introduced me to _Moonlight_ fanfiction!"

"I recommended a couple of stories!" she huffs, crossing her arms over the knock-off designer blouse she wears. "I didn't think you'd really get into it like you did and I damn sure didn't think you'd start writing it. I didn't even know you _knew_ how to write!"

I remove a bra from the top drawer of my oak dresser and pull it on, remembering oh so well how, in the beginning, Rose struggled with the truth that the things I published on the fanfiction site were actually mine. I'm not the most...verbose person I know. My vocabulary is also quite unimpressive, but what I lack in those two areas I more than make up with my vivid imagination.

"Look, I've already told you I'd learn some moderation," I remind my concerned friend, as I slip the unshapely, unattractive scrub top over my upper body. "Let's talk about it later. We're going to be late for work."

I stomp from the room, headed for the mutual bathroom the two of us share, but not before I hear Rose mutter 'avoidance' below her breath.

~h00rs~

Rose parks her tiny, white, convertible-top sports car in front of the strip mall where we both work. She slams the door, carelessly leaving the top off the convertible.

The Georgia sun is beating down on us, reflecting off the shiny shades perched on Rose's face, blinding me with the light. Her blonde hair gleams in the harsh light, and her pearly whites beam at me as she gives me a breezy wave goodbye, promising to meet me at lunch. Rose shuffles over to the beauty shop she owns.

Rose has been a beautician since graduating beauty school right after high school. The two of us were college room-mates, although we went to two very different colleges.

I shove open the glass doors to the clinic I work in, shooting the secretary, Jessica, a casual wave. Jessica grins back, the whiteness of her teeth contrasting greatly against her tan skin. She has the top section of her bleached blonde hair pulled back in a large poof. The bottom section of her hair falls down her back in perfectly curled waves. The scrubs she wears matches mine, although mine were purchased from 'The Wal-Mart.' She'd obviously shelled out some big bucks for the Grey's Anatomy scrubs she wore, two sizes too small thank-you-very-much. My eyes kept darting down to the slight muffin top pressing tightly against her top.

"Hey, Swan," Jessica coos, twirling a pen in her hand, batting her eyelashes at me.

Jessica is a odd individual. Sometimes I swear she's flirting with me, then I berate myself for thinking so poorly of the girl. Although, it wouldn't shock me if she actually _is _flirting with me. The girl is as loose as a goose. She'd probably have sex with a fence post, if you catch my drift.

"Uh, hey Jess," I mutter, shuffling to the back of the clinic to stash my purse in the break room.

I work as a nurse at the Black Medical Clinic, alongside three other nurses and Dr. Jacob Black. Dr. Black is a sweet man, tall and handsome with tan skin and sparkling eyes the color of cocoa. His friendly disposition makes him easy to work with. He's patient and kind with the frantic mothers, bothered by their feverish, sweaty children, the elderly ladies with their complaints of constipation, and, now, a very muscular man who is tittering on his feet, about to faint from the injection I just shot into his ass cheek.

"Timber!" I chuckle quietly, as the large man's eyes roll in the back of his head.

There's no reason to panic. The past few years of nursing has taught me that. I simply throw out my arms and call calmly for help. The man's face pales, turning as white as cotton. His forehead beads with sweat, and he slumps to the floor. My shockingly strong arms catch him halfway down, preventing him from hitting his head.

"What happened, girrrrrrrrl?" a feminine voice asks.

I glance up and meet the eyes of another nurse, Eric. Eric is tall, thin, and pale, with inky black hair and matching eyes. He wears eyeliner and smacks bubble gum constantly, just as he's doing now. The scent of strawberry Bubble Yum fills the air. No one in our small town would hire him, apart from Dr. Black, simply because he is gay. Narrow minded jerks.

"I gave him a Decadron injection and told him to sit in the waiting room for fifteen minutes," I explain, grasping the man's ankles and hoisting them in the air in the Trendelenburg position. "He didn't mind me. They never do."

"He's kinda cute," Eric remarks, cocking his head to the side and studying the muscular man intently. "You know, for an unconscious person."

"Is everything alright over here?" a voice edged with worry asks.

Dr. Black joins us, stooping down to check on the massive man. After whipping out a penlight, he pries the man's eyelids back, flashing the bright light across his pupils.

"Pupils are equal, active, and react to light," I hear him mutter quietly.

Jake glances up from the man to my face, which is peeking out between the man's ankles. He gets tickled, either at my position between the man's legs or the irritation evident on my face. Jake's face turns red and he chuckles quietly below his breath. I scowl at him, rolling my eyes.

"You know what they say, Bella," he jokes. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall. What'd you do to the poor fellow? Was it your charm? Quick wit? Inability to walk across a flat surface without face-planting?"

I don't have time to shoot him a snappy comeback. The man slowly begins to roll his head from side to side, muttering below his breath. The blood return caused from me holding his legs in the air eventually brings him to his senses. His eyelids flutter open and he gazes at Eric, Jake, and I in confusion.

"What happened?" he groans, struggling to sit up before dizziness overtakes him. The man quickly lays back down to regain his bearings.

"You didn't mind me, that's what happened!" I huff, because sometimes I can be a bit of a bitch. "When a nurse tells you to sit down, you sit down!"

The man glowers up and me and mutters one word.

"Grouch."

~h00rs~

The rest of the day isn't any better. I ate lunch with Rose, tuning her out as I read fanfiction on my phone. After lunch I was 'accidentally' groped by Jessica twice, yelled at by a woman who wanted information on her son that I wasn't allowed to release, and then I was vomited on by a two-year old suffering from the stomach virus.

Thankfully, I always carry an extra pair of scrubs with me in Rose's trunk, a lesson I learned years ago from a man suffering from explosive diarrhea...I kid you not.

By the time I arrive home, shower, and eat supper, I am beyond exhausted and frustrated. Somehow I still manage to plop myself in front of the laptop, scrolling through Facebook out of boredom. An alert to a comment I wrote the night before, confessing my addiction to fanfiction, caught my attention. When my eyes fell on a responding comment I froze, paralyzed by the pen name in front of me.

_Why do you people put this random crap on your fanfiction Facebook profile? Stop spamming my feed! - TonyMazen69_

TonyMazen69..._the _TonyMazen69, one of the most well-known, wonderfully expressive, smuttiest of the smut fanfiction writers in existence, commented on my post. He didn't just leave any old comment. No, he left an utterly obnoxious and terribly rude comment.

I don't care who you are. That just doesn't fly with me.

Red-faced and filled with irritation, I begin slamming my fingers across the keyboard, leaving my own comment for Mr. TonyMazen69. The anxieties of the day, from Jessica's unwanted advances, the large man passing out on me, and being vomited on...again...fueled my anger.

I was completely unaware that our little Facebook exchange will open the floodgates for something the two of us never expected.

* * *

Shameful Hoodfabulous Fanfiction confession: I read fanfiction at stoplights. Well, I did, until I was almost in a wreck. Don't read and drive!

Okay, I guess real life is coming into play more than I thought, considering I'm a nurse in real life LOL.

I wonder what Bella's typing...and what Edward's reaction will be to what she says. Is she gonna put him in his place?


	4. Chapter 4: Drunkenness

**Chapter Four: Drunkenness**

The bar Emmett and I sit in is dark, upscale, and too typical for my taste. It's the same scene every time we go out. The music throbs from the speakers in a sexy beat. The women, customers and waitresses alike, all look like mirror images of one another: blonde hair, big tits, too much makeup. I wonder what they look like without the dye jobs and without all that shit rubbed on their faces.

Emmett scores us a booth as soon as we arrive. He's a great wingman, or would be, if I was looking for an easy lay. He's corny as hell, but the women flock to him. I guess he's a good looking guy if you're into the whole 'big muscles, deep dimples' sort of thing. He reminds me of a hyperactive chihuahua, grinning as he glances around the bar, practically bouncing in excitement from all the blondes.

Yawn.

I've been bored out of my mind for the past hour, so bored that my mind begins to wander. I see a tatted guy hitting on a young girl near the bar. She's a little different than the others, meaning she doesn't look like a bar whore.

The girl is sweet and innocent, with her straw-colored curls and wide blue eyes, wearing a dress more fitting in a country club than the sexy bar we sit in. I imagine she's lost, or maybe her car broke down and she doesn't have a cell, so she strolls into the bar to borrow a phone. Maybe she's asking for directions...or maybe she's tired of being daddy's little princess, so she came here looking for a good time.

A plot for a fanfic story suddenly dances in my mind: Catholic school girl, bartender with a shady past, a gun-wielding father. I pull out my phone, hit my mobile writing app, and begin typing. I'm so absorbed in my new idea that I don't notice Emmett trying to grab my attention until he thumps me on the forehead.

"Dude!" he practically screams in my ear. "I just found us some ladies for the night."

Emmett beams and nods his head in the general direction of said ladies. A heavy sigh escapes my lips. The women are in their early twenties, corn silk hair, baby-blue eyes, and have killer racks.

Before I can voice my newfound desire for a dark-haired beauty, Em bails, strutting to their table like the king cock in the hen house. I groan in frustration as he brings the giggling blondes back to our table.

"I'm Vicki!" the one beside me squeals, shoving her chair so close to me that she's practically sitting in my lap.

"Of course you are," I mutter, completely bummed that Emmett brought the two bimbos back to our table.

My writing mojo has completely vanished, which pisses me off to no end. I scowl, brooding for a bit as Emmett puts the moves on the other chick...Kate? Irina? Who knows.

"What do you do for a living?" Vicki breaths in a sultry porn voice, leaning closer in.

Her plastic knockers brush against my chest, and for a second I have to check to make sure her rock hard-nipples haven't sliced me. Damn, those thing hurt!

"Do you have tiny daggers in your bra?" I snap, rubbing my chest and ignoring her question. "What the hell just poked me?"

"Ohhhh, I'm sorry, me lad," she moans, not sounding sorry at all as she bats her long, fake, clumpy eyelashes. "When I see a man like you, the lassies beg to come out and play."

Is she speaking with a...fake Irish accent?

"Are you from Ireland?" I ask, tilting my head to the side, a tiny grin playing on my lips.

A hint of amusement tinges my voice. I'll be damn if this crazy chick isn't funny, even if she is a bit pathetic.

"Aye!" she purrs, running her long, glossy pink nails up my bare arm. "My nickname is Lucky Charms. You wanna know why?"

"Because you're so full of the overly-processed sweetness that you eventually give people heart disease and they die?" I suggest, hopefully.

"You're funny, me lad!" she giggles, thrusting the twin death-brigades at me once more. "I've never met a hot guy with a sense of humor! No, silly! They call me Lucky Charms because I'm magically delicious!"

"Is that so?" I ask, scooting away.

"Mmmhmm," she moans, sounding like a dying cow as she scoots forward.

I cringe and order a shot of tequila. I can tell it's going to be a long night. Emmett will kill me if I run the ladies off, so I begin drinking. And then I drink some more.

Then I drink some more.

Vicki gets plastered beside me, losing her fake Irish accent for an Australian one. I find this utterly fascinating, for all of about ten minutes. Then the alcohol really sets in and I find myself lurking on Facebook.

Don't criticize me. Who hasn't drunkenly Facebooked a time or two? Hell, sometimes I even reply to my story reviews when I'm shit-faced.

Yep. I'm that guy.

"Lemme tell you, Nicki," I slur, glancing at the screen of my phone with glassy eyes, "If there's one thing I can't stand, it's someone spamming my news feed."

"You said Spam, mate!" she slurs happily, leaning one my right shoulder. "Like the potted meat! My mom used to feed us Spam back in the trailer park! Them was the good old days!"

"Nicki! I thought you were from Ireland!" I gasp, feigning shock as I scroll through my phone, honestly not paying her much attention.

"My name is Vicki!" she mumbles with a yawn. "I'm from Detroit."

Vicki starts snoring, still leaning heavily against me. Her shiny fuschia lipstick smears against my shirt and I grumble in disgust. I'm a little anal about stains on my clothes and whatnot, mostly because I have no idea how to remove them, without the assistance of a good dry cleaner...or my mother.

I try to sit her up in her chair, but she's very...top-heavy. The weight of her boobs brings her back down and we painfully bump heads.

"Em," I groan. "Why do you do these things to me?"

"I haven't done anything to you, _me lad_," he laughs, throwing his arm around the other blonde. "I didn't put the tequila in your system!"

I grumble in response, delicately cradling the head of my newfound friend, Nicki...or Vicki...whatever. I lay her face gently on the table and she snores in deep satisfaction. The throbbing from the head-bump brings me down from my tequila-induced bliss, just a bit. I avoid glancing in Emmett's general direction because he and his tablemate are now sucking face, making sickening suction noises.

I wish I can do that...find a girl to hook up with...just some random pretty chick, but that's not me. Don't get me wrong, that's who I _once_ was, before I met 'She Who Shall Not Be Named.' She lured me from my wicked ways and gave me a heart, only to later yank it from my body and take a big dump on it.

Now I'm sitting here next to Lucky Charms and Mr. Sucky Face, drunk Facebooking like the loser I've become. I glance down at the news feed, searching for some new fic recs or something else I can do to pass the time until Emmett emerges for air. As I scroll through, I notice the same post I'd read earlier that day.

_Just went to an AA meeting and announced I'm a fanfiction addict! Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right? Hehehehehe - SwanLake_

I heave a heavy sigh, irritated that this person has managed to irk me twice today already. Without another thought I begin typing a comment in response to her status, which is strange considering I normally don't comment to anything anyone posts on Facebook, unless it's concerning a story...or me.

I scold her for spamming my news feed and smirk in satisfaction as I hit the post button. After shoving my phone deep in my pocket, I excuse myself to the restroom. I'm not even halfway back to the table when I feel the familiar buzz of my phone in my pocket.

_Hey, TonyMazen69! You're an asshole. - SwanLake_

I'm frozen, standing near the bar, with my mouth practically hanging to the floor. No one, and I mean, _no one_, has ever talked to me that way. Well, besides my mother and Granny Platt...but they don't count! Who does this chick think she is?

Maybe she's drunk...much drunker than I am. She's obviously an alcoholic. She's already admitted to attending an AA meeting.

It doesn't matter. I don't care if the chick is an alcoholic. She has no right to call me an asshole. I quickly shoot a comment back in response.

_Thanks, SwanLake! I'd rather be an asshole than some alcoholic bitch any day of the week. - TonyMazen69_

I snicker in satisfaction, shove the phone in my pocket, and make my way back to the table. Thing One and Thing Two are both passed out. Their yellowy-blonde tresses hang limply from the table they lay on.

Emmett's kicked back, yapping on his cell phone, a look of disappointment on his face as his eyes dart from his forlorn conquest and back to me. He ends the call just as I plop down at the table.

"I think our night on the town is a bust," Emmett remarks, running his fingers through his dark curls as he glances down at our 'dates.'

"Can we please go now?" I ask, raising an eyebrow in question.

"What...and leave them here?" he inquires, frowning in concern. "They're wasted out of their minds! That's a shitty thing to do, Cullen."

"I'd never leave a girl passed out drunk on a table," I scowl. "You got a better suggestion?"

"We could take them back to your place...until the alcohol leaves their system," he suggests, shrugging.

There's no way I'm taking two strange girls back to my place. All I need, on top of the heartache I most recently endured, is being slapped with a false sexual harassment lawsuit.

"Or we can call them a cab," I scowl, shaking Vicki/Nicki until she begins mumbling incoherently.

We decide to wait it out, hopefully until they sober up enough to call a cab for the girls. I might be an asshole, but I'd never shove a drunk girl in the cab and say 'Adios.' Just as Vicki begins to sober up, I feel the vibration of my phone once again.

_I'm not an alcoholic, you jackass! Why do you think I'm an alcoholic? - SwanLake_

_Maybe because that's what your post implies, genius. - TonyMazen69_

_I went to an AA meeting because I'm a fanficaholic, not an alcoholic, you dickhead. - SwanLake_

"This girl is driving me insane!" I snap loudly, punching my fingers furiously across the screen of my iPhone.

"Who?" Em asks, throwing back another beer.

"This girl on Facebook...SwanLake," I mutter, hitting the post button yet again.

_Such horrible language...do you kiss your mother with that mouth? - TonyMazen69_

"I know SwanLake," Em mumbles, sounding a bit contrary as he frowns into his beer.

He glances hesitantly at our table mates and I almost laugh at his sheepish face. Emmett is completely unashamed to admit to anyone that he's a romance novelist, but when it comes to fanfiction, he's completely embarrassed.

"You know her?" I ask curiously, leaning on the table. "How?"

"Just through fanfiction," he whispers quietly. "She writes romance stories. She's my friend on Facebook, as well. It's a real shame about her mother."

Emmett's morose words hang uncomfortably in the air, like a bitter cloud. A lump forms in my throat as I glance at his suddenly troubled face and ask the one question I'm terrified to ask.

"What happened to her mother?" I question, cringing as his response fell from his lips.

"She died about four months ago. Swan quit writing for a while, but she eventually started back," he replied, sadly. "I guess it makes for a good distraction from what happened."

Damn. I really _am_ an asshole.

* * *

Shameful Hoodfabulous Fanfiction Confession: I zone out when I think of story ideas, then ignore everyone around me as I type them out on my phone. This is probably why my husband glares at me all the time.

CaliGirlMon, a reader who's become such a good friend to me, made my beautiful banner for this story! She also made fan banners for my fics _Breakaway Bella_ and _Dirty South Drug Wars_. They're both viewable on my Facebook page :)

Shoutout to MizzezPattinson, another wonderful reader who has been reading my fics for a while now. She's anal about what she puts on FB now because of this story muahahahahahahahah!

Okay, sorry for the long AN. What do y'all think about Assholeward? It was an honest mistake, right? Leave me some lovin'!


	5. Chapter 5: Remorse

**Chapter Five: Remorse**

**BPOV**

_Such horrible language...do you kiss your mother with that mouth? - TonyMazen69_

I stare at his comment on the laptop screen for a long moment. My chest tightens and tears prick at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over. My gaze inadvertently darts to the shelf hanging above the desk. A framed photograph of my mother stares back down at me. There's a bright smile stretched across her face as the two of us pose, beaming at our father, who happily snapped the photo.

The photograph was taken two weeks before I received a phone call from my father...a phone call which would forever change my life.

My cell rang early one morning just as I was getting ready for work. When I saw my father's face flash across the screen, I sighed, frustrated for the interruption when I was already running late for work. I pocketed the phone, vowing to return his call sometime later. I darted outside to meet Rose, who was standing in the driveway, tapping her foot impatiently. As soon as I arrived at work, I knew something was terribly wrong, from the expression on Jessica's face.

"Your father called...twice," she whispered, her eyes drifting past my shoulder to the television set bolted to the corner of the lobby wall.

My cell vibrated in my pocket. I quickly answered it, pressing it against my ear and gasping at the sound of my father's broken sobs. Jessica continued to stare past me at the television in horror.

I should have never followed her gaze. If I hadn't, I'd never seen the breaking news coverage displayed on the television screen. I'd never seen my mother's silver sedan, which was no longer long and slick, but twisted and crumbled, looking like a crushed soda can.

I shake my head, attempting to pull myself from the painful memories. Stumbling into the kitchen, I rummage around in a cabinet above the vent-a-hood, searching for the bottle of Crown Royal that Rose doesn't think I know exists. The liquid burns my throat viciously as I take a large sip. I glare into nothingness for a while, cursing TonyMazen69 for all he's worth.

After a little liquid encouragement, I replace the bottle and stumble back to the laptop, fully intending to give TonyMazen69 a piece of my mind. No one has 'liked' Tony's comment, but three people have left replies.

_TonyMazen69, I'm assuming you don't know that SwanLake's mother passed away just a few short months ago. I hope she never reads your post. You should really think before typing. - AngelWings_

A small smile replaces my bitter frown. My heart swells from my friend's comment. AngelWings is really Angie, a reader who's followed my writing from the very first chapter of my first story. The two of us converse on a routine basis and have become very good friends over the years. My eyes dart down as I read the next comment.

_You're a jerk, TonyMazen69. When you mess with my author, you mess with me. You better pray to all that is holy we never meet face-to-face, because I'll beat you to a bloody pulp. - AliceTrippinThruWonderland_

I snicker at Alice's comment. Alice is my beta, the person who corrects my many mistakes. She's really like a tiny grammar-Nazi, always patronizing my overuse of commas and run-on sentences. She's one of my closest friends, although she probably doesn't know this. I speak to her more often than I speak to my own family, which is a little sad, but true. She's typically pretty laid-back, probably from the massive amounts of weed she smokes. To see her threaten physical violence against a virtual stranger is a little shocking.

The last comment to my status arrived only two minutes ago.

_I'm apologizing for TonyMazen69, Swan. He honestly didn't know about your mother. I've known him, personally, for years. He'd never intentionally hurt anyone by bringing up such a painful subject. - EmilyDarkInSin_

I smile once again and brush the tears from my cheeks. Em has recently become a good friend to me as well, reaching out to me through encouraging reviews on my latest fic. I was shocked to find her reviewing my story. Em has written in the fandom for years, and has always been such an icon to me, writing what she calls 'dark romance.' She has such a poetic, yet dismal style of writing. It is entirely captivating. Her story updates always keep me on the edge of my seat, begging for more.

My thoughts of leaving a hurtful reply to Tony's statement slowly fizzle away. Em is the most sincere person, aside from Angie and Alice, I've ever had the pleasure of knowing through fanfiction, although we've never met in person or chatted outside of fanfiction and Facebook. If she truly presumes Tony means no harm, I believe her.

I have a quick temper and a short fuse, so I surprise myself by taking the high-road. I delete the entire post from Facebook and tuck myself into bed. An email alert informs me that my one of my favorite authors had updated her story. So I do what I do best; emerge myself in the words of others, pushing my hurt away, even if it is just momentarily. I disappear into another world.

~h00rs~

Tony Masen, the _real_ Tony Masen, the main character in the _Moonligh_t novels, is gently caressing my breasts. His long, lithe fingers ghost from my soft peaks and dip between my legs, teasing my swollen flesh. I moan, fisting the sheets below me as his spicy breath whispers across my skin. Just as his hot tongue teases one pert nipple, an annoying sound breaks through the sultry night air.

_Ding!_

"Ummphhh," I grumble, partially awoken from my dream by a strange, yet familiar sound.

I pry my eyes open and glance blindly around the room. My bedroom is still encased in darkness. There is no morning light peeking through the curtains. I'm met with nothing but silence, apart from the steady ballad of crickets singing outside and Rose's snores drifting from her bedroom across the hall. The bold, bright numbers of the digital clock resting on my dresser announces it is three am. I groan and shut my eyes, waiting for sleep to take me once more.

_Ding!_

"Damnit!" I curse, opening my eyes yet again.

The bright screen of my cell phone beckons me from where it is partly buried beneath my pillow. I fumble around for it, glancing at the screen. There's six angry text messages from Alice, who's always shocked when I'm actually asleep at a decent hour. We spend most of our insomnia-induced nights chatting through texts. It's mostly silly talk. I'm usually sleepy-drunk, giddy from many sleepless nights. She's normally tripping through her own personal weed-infused Wonderland.

It's not her texts, however, that fully awaken me. No. I shoot straight up in bed because of the words on my Facebook Messenger.

_I'm sorry. - TonyMazen69_

I bite my lip, staring at the words for a long moment. So long, in fact, that he sends an impatient instant message.

_I know you see this. It shows that you've seen it, you know. - TonyMazen69_

Gah! He's an ass even when he apologizes. My thumbs hit the screen frantically in response.

_Great. Thanks. Goodbye. - SwanLake_

_That's it? That's all you have to say? - TonyMazen69_

_What reaction would you prefer? - SwanLake_

_I want you to insult me. Degrade me. Make me suffer even more for what I said. - TonyMazen69_

_Fine. You're an asshole. I can't stand you. I rue the day you were born. Now leave me alone. - SwanLake_

_I really do feel horrible for what I said. I honestly didn't mean to cause any hurt or hard feelings...- TonyMazen69_

The jerk's sincerity is causing a lump to form in my throat, so I do what I do best, avoid serious conversation with cynicism and inappropriateness.

_Shut up and leave me alone. You woke me up from a delicious dream involving me and the REAL Tony Masen, who is a true gentleman, I'm sure...unlike YOU. - SwanLake_

I snicker to myself, assuming my tasteless remark has finally thrown him off. I start to toss the phone carelessly aside to return to my perverted fantasies, but I notice the words 'TonyMazen69 is typing' flash across the screen.

_Tony Masen the Moonlight character, or Bob, the actor who portrays him in the movies? - TonyMazen69_

I know this jerk isn't seriously expecting me to converse with him at three am, especially after our earlier, very public conflict on Facebook.

_Both. Tony was pounding me from behind and Bob was assaulting my mouth with his massive cock. Why does it matter? - SwanLake_

I guess _that_ snarky comment shocks him. The screen is blank for a long while, except for the tiny alert which tells me TonyMazen69 has seen my comment. I snicker to myself, satisfied that I've thoroughly blown his mind. I fall back against my soft down pillow, fully expecting any further conversation to cease. I'm wrong.

_I've met Bob. He seems like a nice enough guy, although I prefer the character in the book over the one he portrays in the movie. - TonyMazen69_

Hmmm. His statement stuns me, not only because he's claiming to meet a famous actor, but because he chose to ignore my dirty, sarcastic remark. Also, I shockingly agree with him. I always prefer the written characters in my favorite books over those portrayed on the big screen. Instead of agreeing, however, I pull the bitch route.

_You expect me to believe you've met Bob in person...and actually spoke to him? You're not only an asshole, but a filthy liar. - SwanLake_

_I'm not lying. He's a fan of mine...asked me to autograph a copy of my book. Why would I lie about something like that? - TonyMazen69_

_Maybe because you're a jerk? - SwanLake_

_I told you I'm sorry. Are you going to continue to insult me? - TonyMazen69_

_You wanted me to berate you, besides, no one is forcing you to message me, twatmonkey. If you don't like my sarcastic wit and inappropriate behavior, un-friend me. I've already removed you from my favorite author's list on the fanfiction site. - SwanLake_

_No, you haven't. - TonyMazen69_

_How do you know? - SwanLake_

_Because I looked. - TonyMazen69_

_Stop stalking my fanfiction profile, you freak! - SwanLake_

_No. Why did you delete the Facebook post? - TonyMazen69_

_Because you hurt enough people already, intentionally or not. - SwanLake_

_That was nice of you to do...you could have left it there to punish me. - TonyMazen69_

_I'm going to sleep now. Leave me alone. - SwanLake_

_Looking forward to more dreams of Tony and Bob? - TonyMazen69_

_Yes, if you'd leave me alone! I can't pleasure myself if you keep messaging me. I use both hands when I rub one out. One on my tits, the other on my kitty. - SwanLake_

_So you're not a dude? - TonyMazen69_

_NO! Why would you think that?! - SwanLake_

_It happens...sometimes people pretend they're something they're not. - TonyMazen69_

_Well, I don't. I keep it real 24/7. - SwanLake_

_I can see that...I think that's why I like you. You're a breath of fresh air. - TonyMazen69_

This guy is seriously deranged. He's gone from insulting me to complimenting me, in just a matter of minutes. I frown at my phone quickly typing my response.

_Stop ninja mind-fucking me with your sudden niceties! I've gotta be at work in a few hours. Can I get some decent rest? Please? - SwanLake_

_For now...but we'll be talking again. Soon. - TonyMazen69_

_Do you have mental problems? Were you dropped on your head as a small child? Has anyone ever told you what an arrogant ass you are? - SwanLake_

_Not lately...hey, can I ask you a question? - TonyMazen69_

_By all means. I have nothing better to do than answer some asshole's questions. It's not like I'm trying to sleep or anything. - SwanLake_

_Good. I'm glad I'm not bothering you. Where did you get your Facebook profile picture? - TonyMazen69_

_My best friend took that picture of me at the lake earlier this summer...why? - SwanLake_

_No reason. Goodnight, Swan. - TonyMazen69_

_Goodnight, asshole. - SwanLake_

_Hey, Swan? - TonyMazen69_

_What?! - SwanLake_

_I like your photo. You're kind of...beautiful...ya know? - TonyMazen69_

I stare at my phone, utterly dumbfounded. My brain reels, struggling to come up with some witty, sarcastic remark to his statement, but it's too late. He's already gone. The 'active now' notification at the top of the screen disappears. I'm left with nothing but my own thoughts...my thoughts of a confusing man who's bewildered me. He's the first man to ever call me beautiful, yet I've never seen his face...and I don't even know his name.

* * *

This chapter is dedicated to Ali, yo ;)

Shameful Hoodfabulous Fanfiction Confession- I over-pumped at the gas station yesterday while reading a story update. It was worth the nearly forty dollars I spent. What's the worst thing that's happened while you've read fanfiction, completely oblivious to the outside world? I love hearing all your confessions! They make me laugh (because I'm guilty of the same things!).

I know I've been a fail at responding to reviews, so I decided to just give y'all an extra update this week. Hope you don't mind.

Thoughts? Leave me some lurve!


	6. Chapter 6: Stalking

**Chapter Six: Stalking**

**EPOV **

I've become a Facebook stalker.

No. Seriously.

I can't get SwanLake out of my mind no matter how hard I try. I've spoken to her once, but she kept me on my toes, something that very few women have been able to do. I grow desperate for any means to distract myself from my thoughts of this girl, this virtual stranger.

My apartment is spotless from my newfound love of cleaning, something I've started performing as an act of distraction. The laundry is washed, folded, and put away, smelling like Island Fresh Gain detergent. The lipstick stains left by Lucky Charms have magically disappeared from the collar of my shirt, thanks to the wonders of a woman named Heloise, another virtual stranger whose blog I'm now obsessively following.

Heloise is a freaking genius! Not only has she given me stain removal tips, but she's taught me the joy of banishing mildew from my shower.

Was I the only one unaware of the miraculous benefits of distilled vinegar?

I'm not fooling myself. No matter how much of the acetic acid I inhale while shining the kitchen faucet or scouring the shower floor, I still find myself constantly drifting to the computer, pulling up Swan's profile picture on the screen.

I wonder if this is how real stalkers start out. Maybe it's all innocent at first...they find a pretty girl and become obsessively thinking about her, staring at her photo like a crazy person. When I start questioning my sanity I decide it's time to take a break from Facebook and the snarky enthralling thoughts of Ms. SwanLake.

It's Friday night and I've shocked my mother by eagerly agreeing to have supper with her, my father, and Granny Platt at their home. Typically I try to avoid this at all costs, not because I dislike my family...per se. I can handle each of them, divided, but when we're all thrown together it's nothing but a big, boiling pot of trouble.

Desperate for any form of avoidance, I find myself standing in front of their home. I grasp the brass knocker on the front door and bang impatiently.

Glancing around I take in the sights: the small plot of glossy grass in front of their French provincial-style mansion, the bursting, fragrant flowers my mother has lovingly planted on either side of the wide, sweeping stone steps. The house itself is ostentatious; over one-hundred years old and cost enough to feed a small country. I shake my head at the irony of it all, just as I hear the door slowly creak open.

A tiny, frail woman stands before me wearing a navy-blue floral print dress and black orthopedic shoes. She's about five foot tall with streaked gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the crown of her head. Thick Buddy Holly glasses are perched on the end of her tiny nose. The blue eyes hiding behind their thick depths are magnified at massive proportions. Her sagging, wrinkled face takes me in from head to toe with a critical stare.

"If it isn't my grandson, the Harlequin Whoremance Novelist," the old woman snarls, glaring at me through her thick-framed glasses. "Are you still calling yourself 'Edward Platt' on the cover of your trashy novels? Are you still disgracing my good family name?"

"Granny, there's not a person in this world reading my novels who knows my true identity other than you, my parents, and my editor. I can assure you that no one knows 'Edward Platt' is your grandson," I explain with a sigh, as we've had this conversation dozens of times over the years. "Besides, I gave myself 'Platt' as a pen name as a tribute to you, Granny, to show you how much I love you."

"You think plastering my last name all over your dirty books makes me proud?" she hollers, her thin, cracked skin growing red. "You better run, cause I'm gonna whip your ass, boy!"

My grandmother shuffles through the doorway like a decrypted slug. I heave another great sigh and slowly descend the thick stone steps, planting my feet in the lush grass. Granny takes her time, fumbling around as she slowly grasps the black wrought-iron handrails on the stairway. I silently count to one hundred in my head.

Granny eventually makes it to flat land and shuffles towards me at a snail's pace. I dodge her, ducking away easily as she clenches her fists, hollering and flailing at me. With a whistle on my lips I step inside the mansion and shut the door safely behind me, leave my flustered old-as-dirt grandmother standing in the tiny excuse of a front lawn.

"Edward!" my father beams, standing in the foyer with his hands clasps together prayer-style. "The prodigal's son has returned home! How's life in the sinful world of literature that you're so ungraciously living in?"

Only a man like Carlisle Cullen can get away with insulting me without inflicting injury with his comments.

My father beams angelically, his large, sparkling über-white teeth shining. They're suspiciously larger than the last time I saw him, and I instantly realize he's had them capped. He's wearing a soft gray suit and pink tie. His blonde hair is coiffed to perfection, glistening beneath the ritzy gold chandelier hanging overhead. The gray suit does nothing to hide his toned, athletic body, a result of the days we spend running together.

My father is a preacher, but he's not just any preacher. He's the number one, top-rated, most publically beloved televangelist in the United States. His sermons are broadcast all over the globe. Woman swoon at the sight of his bright smile and charming good looks. Some even stalk him. It's the grin..and the fact that he can dress like a mafia prince, but still glow like an angel.

He makes Joel Osteen look like the Son of Sam.

"Leave him alone, Carlisle," my mother demands, entering the foyer. "Oh, Edward! I'm so glad you decided to join us tonight! Where's Granny? Have you seen her?"

"She's outside," I tell my mother.

I don't go into detail as to why Granny is standing outside seething. I'm too distracted by my father's massive teeth. My eyes constantly drift to his smile, like I'm witnessing a horrific car wreck.

"Carlisle, go fetch Granny so we can eat supper," my mother says, shooting my father a stern glance.

The perma-grin falters just a bit at the mention of my grandmother, but he replaces it with the psycho-smile quickly enough. My father, like me, is slightly terrified of the old broad. Luckily I'm not the one who's forced to share a home with her.

My father glides around me and disappears outside. I follow my mother into the elegant dining room which hasn't changed much since they purchased the home. The walls are adorned with fancy gold fabric. Antique furniture graces the room. Ancient fine china hangs from the walls. A massive crystal vase billowing over with blooming, fresh-cut flowers rests in the middle of the long, glistening wooden table. The table itself is covered in a mouth-watering array of food. My stomach audibly growls.

Granny and my father arrive just as we sit down. For some unknown reason Granny decides to sit directly across from me, probably so she can glower at me and kick me with her thick shoes throughout the entire meal. We drop our heads as my father offers grace. He ends the prayer with a boisterous 'Blessed Be!" before we begin passing the food around.

We carry on a pleasant, yet mundane conversation for about twenty minutes. My grandmother stares at me like I'm the scum of the earth the entire time. Her tiny body is twitching in anticipation and it isn't long before she digs into me.

"Slandering my name for the whole world to see, you filthy dog. And for what? So you can write a bunch of dirty books for horny housewives to read? All you men think about is your dicks!" she cries, burying the prongs of her fork deeply inside a boiled potato, causing me to wince. "Just like your grandfather! His dick was like a tiny pencil!"

Here we go. Again.

"Mamma!" my mother admonishes, her face growing red. "Don't talk about Daddy that way!"

"Oh, it was Esme!" Granny snarls, ripping and tearing the meat from a fried chicken wing with her loose dentures. "It looked like this!"

Granny holds up the thin, greasy chicken bone. Tiny strands of meat hang limply from the joints.

"And crooked too! Bent in the wrong direction!" she continues, scowling at the memory of my deceased grandfather's penis.

"Did you mix up your meds again, granny Platt?" I chuckle. "Or did you forget to take your antipsychotics today?"

"I ain't psychotic, boy! I take antidepressants! I have to take Prozac to live up here with you damn Yanks!"

At the mention of her precious Prozac, Granny digs in the front pocket of her floral dress. She removes a colorful capsule, covered in lint, and pops it in her mouth. She also removes a tiny bottle of whiskey from her breast pocket and swallows the medication with a large gulp.

"Prozac, you're my only friend," she mutters, gazing at the miniature, amber-filled glass bottle fondly.

"I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to mix your medication with whiskey," I mumble between bites.

"Don't you sass me, boy!" Granny growls, shaking in her chair.

"Mamma, be sweet," my mother coos patiently as my father sits beside her, smiling like a loon.

"Yeah, be sweet, Granny," I goad her.

"To hell with being sweet! Quit writing about your dick and start using it. Your poor mamma wants grandchildren, for some ungodly reason," my grandmother proclaims. "Why the hell she thinks you'd take care of kids when you can't even wash the crack of your ass is beyond me."

"I've been bathing on a regular basis lately, if you must know," I admit.

Bathing has also become a form of distraction.

"Son, maybe you should take a break from writing and meet a nice young lady to spend your time with," my mother sweetly suggests. "I worry about you, all alone in that apartment with no one to talk to. I'm sure there's someone out there who can hold your interest again."

"The only girl who's held my interest lately hates me," I grumble. "Besides, I don't even know her name...or anything about her."

"You met someone!" my father exclaims, his eyes sparkling happily. "That's great, Edward!"

"I haven't technically met her," I confess. "I talked to her online. "She's a writer, like me."

"Online!" Granny hollers, slamming her fist against the table, shaking it with surprising force. "I knew it! I tried telling you something is wrong with this boy, Esme. I bet he's a Craigslist Killer! Sitting in a dark apartment in front of a computer all day long. It's just not fittin' I tell you! Are you one of those men on Dateline who meets young girls online? Showing up to their house with a bag full of wine coolers and condoms?! Freaking Yanks."

"Granny, do not cast judgment on Edward and his wicked ways," my judgmental father speaks brightly. "There is far greater punishment than living with a bunch of Yanks in the Windy City!"

"Oh, shut up you dumbass," my grandmother growls, chugging her whiskey once more.

"My son the dreamer," my mother says quietly, staring at me with pity in her eyes. "Living in a fantasy world even in his love life."

"I have no love life," I grumble. "She hates me."

"Smart girl," Granny belches. "I like her already. You should marry her."

I open my mouth to hurl a snide remark, but I'm abruptly interrupted.

_Ding!_

My heart frantically gallops in my chest and I turn into a sixteen year-old girl, fumbling around frantically for my cell phone. A grin stretches across my face as I see the words lit up on my Facebook Messenger.

_You tell a girl she's beautiful then ignore her for three days? I knew you were an ass. - SwanLake_

_I'm not ignoring you. I simply assumed you no longer desired talking to me, considering I'm a jerk and all. - TonyMazen69_

_You are a jerk...but for some reason I miss hurling insults at you. It was fun while it lasted. - SwanLake_

_Would you like to continue degrading me? Maybe on a semi-routine basis? - TonyMazen69_

_Are you a glutton for punishment? - SwanLake_

_If the punishment inflicted is coming from you...yes. I think I am. - TonyMazen69_

_Fine. Whatever. If you enjoy being beaten by my snide verbiage, who am I to judge? - SwanLake_

_Wonderful! I'll message you when I get home. I'm having supper with my parents and grandmother, but I should be home in an hour or so. - TonyMazen69_

_Supper with your parents and grandmother? How shockingly human of you. I'll be sitting here...impatiently awaiting the chance to flail you with snark and cynicism. - SwanLake_

_Perfect. I'll message you soon. - TonyMazen69_

_Mmmkay. Later, Tony. - SwanLake_

_Hey, Swan? - TonyMazen69_

_What, loser? - SwanLake_

_The name's Edward. - TonyMazen69_

There's no immediate response. I've thrown her a bone, giving her the one thing that no one besides Emmett and Jasper have...my name.

As I sit, wondering if she realizes the amount of trust I'm showing her, I feel the hard stares of my tablemates. I glance up, taking in all their faces. My grandmother glowers at me in disgust, my mother gazes at me with concern and frustration, and my father is gleefully grinning.

_Ding!_

I abandon their stares to glance down at the glowing screen in my hands, smiling at the words that shine back.

_Edward? Ugh. I knew it. A name like that only tells me that you're obviously an eighty year-old man. You should take your heart medication if you plan on keeping up my verbal onslaught...Bella - SwanLake_

I take in a deep, sharp breath, pausing only momentarily as she gives me her first name. Bella. Her name is Bella. It's beautiful, just like her. I snicker as I type my response.

_Oh, I can 'keep up.' Don't worry your pretty little head about that. - TonyMazen69_

I wonder if I've crossed the line again, but her immediate reply abolishes my concern.

_Ugh. You're a pig, making remarks like that with your folks sitting nearby. Message me when you get home. As for the 'keeping up' remark, I guess that's something you'll just have to prove. - SwanLake_

* * *

Shameful Hoodfabulous Fanfiction Confession- I was standing outside Saturday, reading an update on my phone when a tiny insect flew down my scrub top and stung me. I freaked out, cause that shit hurt, and started jumping around. I dropped my phone and the insect eventually made his way down the back of my scrub bottoms, biting me again. It's not as good of a story as feet going numb from sitting on the toilet reading too long or running into poles. Y'all have really endured some pain for the love of fanfiction!

I have an anonymous contest entry if y'all want to check it out. Author search Twific-textmessagelolcontest. I'll tell y'all which one is mine AFTER the contest is over ;)

Okay, thoughts on this chapter? Does online lurving, lemons, or self-gratification bother y'all? Just wondering...


	7. Chapter 7: Ruined

**Chapter Seven: Ruined**

**BPOV**

"Screw EmilyDarkInSin!" Rose declares, shoving her huge, round sunglasses over her angry eyes. "I hate her!"

Jesus. Not again.

"What's she done this time, Rose?" I ask, struggling to hold in a huff of annoyance.

"What's she done? What hasn't she done?!" Rose growls, gripping the gear shift on her little convertible with such strength I expect her to yank it from the car. "She's written another story that has ruined me for real men. Ruined me!"

"Rose, those guys in her stories don't exist," I explain patiently, grasping the leather seats between my fingers as she speeds down Main Street.

"What, the pretty guys with the huge cocks and brooding personalities that you just die for?" she spits, flying through the intersection and nearly plowing down an old woman standing near the curb.

The old woman has blue hair...and a walker, which she shakes in the air with zest like a bag of Shake-N-Bake chicken. Great. Now I'm terrified and hungry.

"You're freaking me out," I admit, my heart hammering in my chest."You're also making me very hungry, which doesn't go well with the nausea you're also causing by your maniacal driving."

"Just so you know, I sent her a nasty private message and told that hussy to stop writing such perfect men!" Rose continues, ignoring my freaking out/hunger/nausea confession as she whips into the parking lot in front of my workplace. "She makes me realize how pathetic my love life is! I actually broke down and agreed to go out on a date with James Stanley. I'm desperate, I tell ya!"

"Ew. James Stanley? Jessica's brother?" I ask, between deep, calming breaths. "My love life is non-existent too, so who am I to judge? Maybe I should go out with Jess...we could double date!"

I wonder what my father would think if I brought Jess over for supper one night. Our pseudo-love affair flashes through my mind: dinner and a movie, me gently caressing her muffin-top as we make out on the back row of the theater. What would our wedding photos look like? Would I wear the white dress or the black tux?

"You're twisted," she mutters.

I'm also thinking maybe I just voiced my inner monologue aloud.

"You did," Rose growls. "You still are."

"Yes. I know I'm twisted," I admit, clutching the door handle in my pale, shaking hand and practically falling from the car. "See you at lunch."

"Whatever," she grumbles as we part ways.

This isn't the first conversation the two of us have had involving Em. The last time Rose mentioned her, she swore up and down she was in love with her writing so much that she declared herself a lesbian. Now she claims she hates Em. If she only knew Em and I chat on a somewhat regular basis on Facebook.

While Rose is frustrated I am confused. It's been three days since I received the infamous 'beautiful' message from TonyMazen69. Out of morbid curiosity I began searching the forums, trying to figure out which one of his fics was pulled years ago and what name it was published under. It only took a few minutes to find what I was looking for. One of his fanfiction stories was pulled and published under the author name of one Edward Platt.

Through several more minutes on Google I also discover Edward Platt is a man of great mystery. He never attends book signings. There are no photographs of him online. In fact, it was almost as though he doesn't truly exist. I begin to wonder if 'Edward Platt' is actually a pseudonym.

I'm puzzled. Why the secrecy? Is he a toad? A troll? Is he the offspring of Quasimoto? An old man? The name 'Edward' alone leads me to believe he's vastly older than me...unless Edward is a family name. It's common, at least where I come from, to name your children after you or the elders in your family.

I pacify my newfound obsession over Edward Platt by convincing myself it is only because he's the first and only man to call me beautiful. Ever. It's normal to be a little curious about someone who says something like that...right?

My mind is a million miles away all day long. After lunch I realize I haven't checked my email for story updates or snuck off to the bathroom to read all day long. The only thing that grabs my attention away from my faceless man's compliments is James Stanley, Rose's newfound beau, who arrives at the clinic clutching his stomach and complaining of having a kidney infection.

"Your kidneys are here," I tell him, raising an eyebrow as I place my hands on my flanks.

"It burns when I piss," he moans, doubling over.

I scribble down a short list of symptoms, check his vital signs, and escort him into an examination room. Dr. Black pays him a visit and within moments he's coming at me with a wicked grin and a long, cotton-tip applicator.

"Ahh...the six inch Q-tip," I joke, taking it from his hands. "It makes the regular Q-tip pale in comparison."

"You know the drill," he smirks.

"Say it ain't so, Doc," I groan. "My roommate is going out with this guy tonight."

Doctor Black's face falls. He runs his hand through his silky dark hair, casting a look at the examining room door.

"Your friend should keep better company, I'm afraid," he sighs.

"In her defense," I begin. "she's desperate for male attention since she's begin to question her sexuality. It's fanfiction's fault, really. I've told her a million times to stop reading femme slash."

Doctor Black stares at me as though I've grown a third tit.

"Okay, I have no clue what 'fanfiction' or 'femme slash' is, although I do have an inkling of an idea. All I know is I need you to do the 'Q-tip dip' on our friend in there," he smiles, jerking a thumb towards the door.

I grumble below my breath as he flashes me a wolfish grin. The jackass swaggers away whistling. I curse all things nursing, wondering exactly whose idea it was to begin with for us to do the dirty work for the physicians.

I man up, channeling my inner Florence Nightingale, who I bet never cared for a patient with a severe case of 'the drip.' I walk into the examination room holding the cotton tip applicator like a searing-hot cattle prod.

"Drop your drawers, Sugar," I say, wagging my eyebrows evilly, remembering what a jackhole James was in high school. "Let the fun times begin!"

James is staring at me, wide-eyed and practically cowering in fear. I've went from Nightingale to Luke Skywalker in ten seconds flat, cutting through the air with the extra-long cotton swab like it's a glowing light saber.

"What...what do you think you're gonna do with that?" he manages to whimper.

"I'm gonna insert this long, hard, rigid swab into the teeny, tiny opening at the end of your penis," I tell him, in my most professional tone of voice of course, as I jab the swab in his general direction. "Just about three-fourths of an inch. We need to see what's causing that nasty little drip you've got going on."

"Oh, hell no you're not, Bella Swan!" he growls, standing and cringing in pain.

"It is my responsibility to inform you of the risks and complications of refusing said testing and possible medical treatment for your...probable condition," I advise him, stalking forward.

"I don't give a damn!" he hollers, face red as he realizes I know exactly what I'm collecting the specimen for. "You're not sticking that thing in my dick!"

"Maybe you shoulda watched where you were sticking your dick to begin with and I wouldn't have to do this!" I retort.

Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Florence Nightingale has left the building. She has been replaced by Nurse Ratched. Have I mentioned that I can sometimes be a bit of a...bitch?

Don't judge me. Spend your days shoving Q-tips up random leaky penises and see if you're Suzy Freaking Sunshine.

"I'm outta here!" he yelps, shuffling backwards to the door, knocking over a tall, metal light in the process.

"Remember the old saying!" I call to him as he trips from the room. "Don't be silly, next time cover one-eyed Willie!"

And that, my friends, was the highlight of my day.

~h00rs~

"I sincerely hope you've decided to bail on James Stanley tonight," I tell Rose as soon as we're safely at home.

The idea of Rose donning trimming shears or sitting behind the wheel of her death-mobile when finding out about James is terrifying. I decide to drop hints when we are alone...with no sharp objects or electrical appliances within easy reach.

"No, I haven't," she sneers, clearly still upset with Em, the person who has 'ruined her' for all things male. "In fact, he just texted me to confirm our date."

"Is that so?" I muse. "Did he happen to mention bumping into me today?"

"He bumped into you today?" she questions, eyeing me suspiciously from where she stands, dousing herself with perfume. "At the clinic?"

"I cannot confirm, nor deny, his presence at said medical facility," I respond, aloof and indifferent as I examine my nails. "That would be a vilolation of patient rights and confidentiality...if he were a patient, that is."

"Ohhhh! You're gonna play that game again, huh?" she snickers. "Tell me about your day, Bella, but be sure not to mention anyone by name. I'd hate to know you violated someone's privacy."

"Well, I had a young man come in with a drip...and it wasn't a post-nasal one if you catch my drift," I hedge, carefully watching her reaction.

Rose...well, she turns the color of a rose: first pink, then red, and then a brilliant fushia. There's a scorching hot curling iron resting on the towel rack. I eye it warily, praying she doesn't take her aggression out on me.

"That summabitch!" she howls, yanking the curling iron from its place and thrusting it in the air. "As God as my witness, I will never date again!"

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn!" I tell Scarlett, I mean, Rose.

Rose huffs, glaring at me as she furiously curls and her hair into a perfect Southern coif.

"I'm going out tonight. I'm gonna find some random guy to buy my drinks, flirt with me, and boost my wounded ego before I come home, leaving him high and dry. And you're coming with," she tells me, in a forceful, no-nonsense tone.

"Uh uh," I argue, wagging my finger. "I've had enough drama for one day. The last thing I need is some drunk loser drooling on me in a bar. My ass is taking a shower and hitting the sack, Jack."

"Fine!" she sniffs, grabbing her purse from where it hangs on the bathroom doorknob.

"Don't come crying to me again about how the only man you've talked to in a month is Doctor Dogood and his gay compadre."

"I have talked to another man," I grumble quietly, happy she's walking away and out of earshot. I eye my laptop as the front door slams behind my friend, my heart picking up speed.

~h00rs~

I stare at the laptop screen for what feels like an eternity, arguing with myself over whether or not to contact Tony again. If I'm being honest with myself, I'm morbidly curious about this man. I've read everything he's ever written in the past two years since I discovered fanfiction, and he's nothing short of brilliant. Sure, he's a bit of an ass...but I'm a bit of a bitch. I can't find it within myself to hate this man for his verbal blunder he made about my mother. Plus, the fact that he finds me...beautiful is endearing. Before I can talk myself it of it, my fingers are bouncing along the keyboard.

_You tell a girl she's beautiful then ignore her for three days? I knew you were an ass. - SwanLake_

I squee, freaking squee like a prepubescent Bieber fan when he immediately responds.

_I'm not ignoring you. I simply assumed you no longer desired talking to me, considering I'm a jerk and all. - TonyMazen69_

I bite my lip and decide to be completely honest with him.

_You are a jerk...but for some reason I miss hurling insults at you. It was fun while it lasted. - SwanLake_

_Would you like to continue degrading me? Maybe on a semi-routine basis? - TonyMazen69_

I grin and laugh, the first real laugh that's escaped my lips all day long.

_Are you a glutton for punishment? - SwanLake_

_If the punishment inflicted is coming from you...yes. I think I am. - TonyMazen69_

"Is he...flirting with me?" I ask myself aloud, because yes, I'm weird like that.

_Fine. Whatever. If you enjoy being beaten by my snide verbiage, who am I to judge? - SwanLake_

_Wonderful! I'll message you when I get home. I'm having supper with my parents and grandmother, but I should be home in an hour or so. - TonyMazen69_

I try to imagine this man, this man who I only days ago was in the midst of a Facebook smack down with, having a pleasant meal with his family. Maybe he's not the arrogant ass I once assumed him to be.

_Supper with your parents and grandmother? How shockingly human of you. I'll be sitting here...impatiently awaiting the chance to flail you with snark and cynicism. - SwanLake_

_Perfect. I'll message you soon. - TonyMazen69_

_Mmmkay. Later, Tony. - SwanLake_

_Hey, Swan? - TonyMazen69_

_What, loser? - SwanLake_

_The name's Edward. - TonyMazen69_

I don't immediately respond. He's thrown me a bone, giving me his name.

There's a huge amount of trust involved when giving a virtual stranger your real name. It's like crossing an invisible line into the unknown, forging a relationship with someone you've never met, as I have Alice, my beta. You can be yourself with these people. There's no judgment, no shame in having to face them the day after you've said or done something horribly embarrassing. It's freeing, really. My fingers tremble a bit as I type once more.

_Edward? Ugh. I knew it. A name like that only tells me that you're obviously an eighty year-old man. You should take your heart medication if you plan on keeping up my verbal onslaught...Bella - SwanLake_

_Oh, I can 'keep up.' Don't worry your pretty little head about that. - TonyMazen69_

I can't extinguish the cheesy grin that pops onto my face as I read his comment. He's definitely flirting, and I find myself shocked as I realize I like it.

_Ugh. You're a pig, making remarks like that with your folks sitting nearby. Message me when you get home. As for the 'keeping up' remark, I guess that's something you'll have to prove. - SwanLake_

There's no harm in a little Facebook flirtation. It's not like anything will ever come out of it. Facebook Messenger states he's in Chicago...I'm all the way down in Podunk, Georgia. I might as well have a little fun between reading and writing...right?

I sit back in my rolling chair, hands behind my head, a silly grin on my face, and wait for the games to begin.

* * *

Shameful Hoodfabulous Fanfiction Confession: I live vicariously through the characters I read or write about. I'd never talk or act the way Bella does in front of a patient *innocent grin* Do you live vicariously through the characters you enjoy reading/writing?

Join me on Facebook: Hoodfabulous Fiction

I also have a new FB group called Hood's ROFLMAO Fanfiction Recs, and when I say 'new' I mean 'I created it yesterday' new. Come join us!

Reviews = lurve


	8. Chapter 8: Goner

For Tia. Here's your update, biznitch. Quit threatening to kick my arse. I'm on vacation writing this shiznit. Hope you're happy.

* * *

**Chapter Eight:Goner**

**EPOV**

I tell the cabbie I'll tip him double if he makes it to my address in record time. My head snaps back as he slams his foot down on the gas, twisting and weaving through the traffic like a bat out of hades. My fingers grip the ripped, stained material of the seat I find myself anxiously sweating on, suddenly nervous for my life. Fortunately, we arrive back at my apartment building unscathed. I pay the man, give him a hefty tip, and smile at his excited grin as he speeds away.

I nod at the doorman and dart for the elevator, tapping my foot impatiently as I wait for it to slowly descend. I sigh in relief when it finally arrives, the familiar dinging sound sending jolts of excitement through my body. The door opens tortuously slow and I jump forward, nearly knocking over an old woman and her poodle. They both growl at me as I murmur a pathetic apology below my breath, slamming my finger against the button, mentally willing the elevator doors to shut.

The elevator moves at a painstakingly slow pace. I curse myself below my breath, shaking my head and internally rolling my eyes at my excitement. I'm acting like a teenage boy with my over-eagerness to speak to Bella, a person who is a virtual stranger to me in every sense of the word. I wonder what it is about her that I find so stimulating. Maybe it's her quick wit, or her lack of a 'mouth' filter. Maybe it's her kindness for deleting the Facebook comment I'd made about her mother. It was an innocent mistake, but one which could have possibly caused many people to view me in a way that I didn't want, nor deserve, to be viewed. Maybe it's simply her profile picture; the photograph of Bella floating in a lake, her eyes closed, hiding the color that I so desperately desire to see.

It's strange musing over a woman's eye color. Since 'She Who Shall Not Be Named' left my life I haven't thought about another women except in a sexual manner. Eye color didn't normally matter, as long as they were willing and able to take what I was ready to give them. When I'm not getting what I need I use my pent-up sexual frustration in my fics, writing about my past escapades with women, and also the sexual things I secretly desire. The only thing I desire now is getting to know Bella, if she'll let me.

I'm drawn from my thoughts as the elevator finally arrives at the top floor. I punch in the numbers on the door keypad, waiting impatiently as the door makes a resounding click. I spot my laptop sitting on my desk across the room. The green light glows from across the dark room, taunting me, pulling me forward like a beacon in the night. I shuffle across the Persian rug, then fall easily into my desk chair. I log onto Facebook as quickly as possible, smiling when I see her name in the chat box to the right of my screen. A glowing green ball shines tantalizingly beside her pen name. Ignoring the pm's that fill my inbox on a daily basis, I click on her name, then pause.

"How do I start this conversation?" I ask myself out loud, drawing my eyebrows up in thought as I drum my fingers along the desk.

Her last message stares somberly back at me as I contemplate my next move.

_Ugh. You're a pig, making remarks like that with your folks sitting nearby. Message me when you get home. As for the 'keeping up' remark, I guess that's something you'll have to prove. - SwanLake_

"Here goes nothing," I mutter, rapidly firing off a comment.

_How does one prove they can 'keep up?" - TonyMazen69_

_I'm sure you have no trouble keeping anything up. You're a guy after all...right? - SwanLake_

_You're right. I have no problems keeping anything up...verbally or otherwise, and of course I'm a guy. Why would you even ask that? - TonyMazen69_

_I'm not sure WHY I asked that. Back in the day female authors used male pen names to get decent book sales. Men draw in more attention than women, especially in the fandom. - SwanLake_

_I've noticed that. My inbox is full of pm's from women. I normally ignore them. TonyMazen69_

_Why is that? - SwanLake_

_Honestly? - TonyMazen69_

_Of course. I'll be honest with you if you're honest with me. - SwanLake_

I pause for a moment, confused at the sudden seriousness of our conversation. What was once lighthearted and fun while eating supper with my parents and grandmother was now somber, yet not unpleasant. I was wary, opening up to this woman, this woman who doesn't know me, but my fingers develop a mind of their own, stroking the keys with vigor as I answer her short, yet probing question.

_I get tired of the women only drawn to me because I'm a man. If the pm or review isn't focused on my story, I don't respond. I don't want people reading my stories because I'm a man. I want them to read them because they're well-written and entertaining. - TonyMazen69_

_Wow. I guess I assumed you would enjoy the attention. I'm trying to put myself in your position. I think I'd feel the same way; I'd hate for people to read my stories only because of my sex. -Sometimes I see your comments on FB. You're cocky at times. I thought you a little arrogant, to be honest. I figured you enjoyed the hordes of fanfiction women who follow you, damp panties and all, but now...now I think maybe you're not such a bad guy after all. - SwanLake_

_You're funny, Swan. I would tell you that knowing I have an effect on women isn't a turn on, but that would be a lie. Yes, there's a thrill that goes through me when a woman tells me how wet I've made her, or how she'll imagine my chapter the next time she's with her husband or significant other. It IS a turn on, but it's not enough to turn me into a total asshole. Just a partial one. Besides, those women are strangers to me. I don't know them. I'll never know them. They're just nameless, faceless women in a virtual world. I'm happy that you've possibly changed your opinion of me. - TonyMazen69_

_You could meet them. Your fans, I mean. There's the MoonLight meetup coming soon. Do you ever attend? I'm sure your readers would love meeting you... - SwanLake_

Her words make me freeze. My fingers hover over the keys on the laptop, unsure how to explain why I don't attend the MoonLight meetups, why I use a pseudonym instead of using my real name. Do I tell her? Do I tell this beautiful woman I barely know who my father is? How much I would shame him, damage his reputation, slander his name by announcing to the world that his only child is not just an author, but a smut author?

_Maybe one day, Swan. I'm not ready to take that step just yet. - TonyMazen69_

_Ah, vague answer. Mysterious. You know us women love a good mystery ;) That's okay. I won't question you about it again. I just...I don't know. - SwanLake_

_What? - TonyMazen69_

_You're fun. You're easy to piss off and I enjoyed our banter. I wouldn't mind being your friend, Edward...if that's really your name. - SwanLake_

_Edward is my name, although most women call me 'Master.' At least they do in the bedroom. - TonyMazen69_

_Really? Why's that? - SwanLake_

_Because that's what I am in the bedroom. I'm the master of my domain. I like being in control of everything, especially when it comes to sex. - TonyMazen69_

There's an extended pause and I curse myself, wondering why I've brought up my personal business with this woman. What I've told her is the truth. Although it's been awhile since I've had a good fuck, I've always been the dominating force inside the bedroom...or car, taxi, park, public restroom...

A sentence suddenly pops up on the screen, drawing me from my thoughts.

_That's something I've never had in my life; a dominating male force. - SwanLake_

_Why is that? You're not attracted to a dominate male? - TonyMazen69_

_Of course I am. There's not many women who aren't. I just haven't been with a man like that. - SwanLake_

_But you have been with men? Sexually, I mean? - TonyMazen69_

_Edward, are you asking me if I'm a virgin? - SwanLake_

_Yeah. I guess I am. - TonyMazen69_

_No, I'm not a virgin. Why do you ask? - SwanLake_

_Just curious. I'm not surprised. If that's really you in your profile pic, I'm sure you have to beat the guys away from you on a daily basis. - TonyMazen69_

_LOL! Not hardly. I haven't had a date in months. I live in a small town. Everyone knows everyone. It's slim pickings around here. If I did find that guy, the dominating male, I'd hold on to him, as long as he is good to me. - SwanLake_

_What does 'good to me' entail? Buying you gifts? Taking you on lavish vacations? - TonyMazen69_

_No. I'm not a vain person, by any means. I'm not a gold digger, nor money hungry. If anything I'm stubborn and independent. I enjoy making it on my own without the help of a man. When I say I want a man who is good to me, I mean I want a man who enjoys my company. I want a man who will put up with my shit, but who also isn't afraid to call me out on it. I want him to tell me when I'm wrong, but not be scared to admit when I'm right. The materialistic stuff doesn't matter. It's HIM that matters. He's out there somewhere. I can feel it deep in my bones. - SwanLake_

_Is that what you think? There's someone out there for everyone? Soul mates? If so, I hate to burst your bubble. That shit doesn't exist. I thought I found my soul mate. I was wrong. - TonyMazen69_

_She wasn't your soul mate. If she were, you'd still be with her. - SwanLake_

_How are you so sure? - TonyMazen69_

_I don't know HOW I'm so sure. I just know that I AM sure. When you find that person...that's just it. It's you and that person forever. It happens. It happened to my parents. It happened to my grandparents. They looked into each others eyes like they were dying inside, yet only truly living when they were together. - SwanLake_

_Nice words, although I'm not surprised. You're a romance author. Writing shit like that is your specialty. - TonyMazen69_

_It's not 'shit.' It's the truth. They gazed into each others eyes like they wanted to drown themselves inside one another. It was mesmerizing, terrifying, and beautiful. That's what I want. Someday. - SwanLake_

I run my fingers through my hair, anxiously tugging at the strands. I'm enthralled by this women, by her way of thinking. I type out a question, the one thing I've longed to know since I first noticed her.

_Bella, what color are your eyes? - TonyMazen69_

_Brown, why? - SwanLake_

_Just wondering. - TonyMazen69_

There's another long pause and I suddenly feel tense, as though I've asked too much. I've longed to know too much about this woman. I gnaw on the inside of my mouth until I taste blood. My mind reels as I try to come up with something witty to say, so not to run this girl off. For some unknown reason, the thought of her logging off and never returning causes me to break into a cold sweat...that is until a photograph pops up in the chat box.

A young woman stares back at me. Her hair is long, thick, and the color of warm fudge. Her features are small and delicate. It's her eyes that stand out most of all. Her eyes are smoldering: big, round, and lined with thick, black lashes...and brown. They're not just brown, they're chocolate mixed with honey, and swirled with brown sugar. Golden flecks stand out boldly near the irises. Her full lips are turned up in a slight smirk and her cheeks are a delicious shade of pink. I stare at the photograph for a long moment and I know.

I know I'm a goner.

* * *

Shameful Hoodfabulous Fanfiction Confession: I'm writing this chapter while on vacation with my family. Being trapped in a hotel room for hours on end makes Hoodfabulous a very angry girl. Have you written/read fanfiction while on vacation or some other inappropriate time? I already know y'all do this at work. I do too...

Reviews = Lurve


	9. Chapter 9: Awkwardness

**Chapter Nine: Awkwardness**

**BPOV**

It's been three weeks since Edward and I started chatting via Facebook, three weeks of complete and utter lunacy. Why is it lunacy, you may ask?

Because I think maybe I'm in love with this man...and I've never even heard his voice, or seen his face.

We've chatted about everything, from the unimportant, lighter topics of 'what's your favorite color' to 'what's your favorite movie' to the heavier ones, such as one night when he questioned me about the death of my mother. That night was hard one. The urge to talk to him on the phone was overwhelming, especially after I broke down in tears, barely able to type. He begged me for my number, apologizing over and over for unintentionally bringing up such a sensitive subject.

And I refused.

I refused to give him my number. Why? Because I'm chicken shit. I like this man, hell, I possibly even love this man, yet I know nothing about him, not really. What if my feelings are all one-sided? What if it's just me? Does he feel the same feelings for me as I do him? And if he doesn't, can I take that sort of rejection, considering I've never felt for any man what I feel for Edward Platt?

Sure, he's been the flirting, but I constantly tell myself that this is normal. Men flirt, especially men like him, who not only think about sex constantly (which most men do), but write about it on a daily basis.

It's this fear, this fear of the sudden rush of emotions I feel for this man, which has brought me here, to the fanciest restaurant in Forks, Georgia.

The Olive Garden.

The restaurant is packed. People line the sidewalks and sit on the benches outside with their plastic pagers, waiting for them to light up like tiny little blue UFO's so they can stuff themselves with bowls of salad and baskets full of bread sticks. I shift uncomfortably on the sidewalk, glancing down at the simple, floral dress and ballet flats I threw on hours earlier. Rose had shook her head in disgust at my inability to become excited over the date. Hell, I hadn't even put on any makeup...not really. Just a swipe or two of mascara, some lip gloss, and a dab of perfume. It's not as though I'm going out with someone I don't know.

I'm going out with my boss. Doctor Jacob Black.

Dr. Black's sudden invitation for endless soup and salad was a shocker. Jacob has never, not once in the years I've worked with him, shown any inkling of attraction towards me. Usually his time is spent mocking me; making fun of my clumsiness and the awkwardness I felt with being around other people in general.

Something changed the past couple of days. Jacob looks at me differently. His eyes linger on me longer than necessary. He laughs a little too loudly at my inappropriateness towards the patients.

Yesterday I arrived at work ten minutes late. There were still creases on my face from sleeping, I may or may not brushed my teeth with a toothbrush and mouthful of mouthwash while praying for my life as Rose drove us to work, and my hair looked like a rooster had been nesting in it.

Apparently Dr. Black has a 'thing' for chicks who have the whole 'homeless' look going on. He walked into the break room during lunch with so much swag that I nearly choked on my chicken salad sandwich. Eric eyed him critically as he picked through his house salad he'd ordered from the restaurant next door, flinging bits of olive from the salad and onto the plastic lid of the container. Dr. Black eased down in the metal chair beside me, flashing me a wolfish grin as I stared blankly into his dark eyes, suddenly feeling shy, as though I didn't even know the man.

He threw his arm around the back of my chair, causing his thumb to 'accidentally' brush against my bare arm. I dropped my head and studied the soggy sandwich in my hands, occasionally shooting Eric the death glare when I'd hear his knowing snicker from nearby.

"Bella," Dr. Black murmured, as though he hadn't watched me spill coffee on myself and fuck up people's charts for the past four hours.

"Dr. Black," I respond, trying like hell to ignore the fact that he's wearing his geeky, thick, black glasses.

Those glasses make me so hot.

I take a bite of the sandwich and momentarily wonder what he's like in bed. Is he the sweet, gentle lover, or the dominating male figure I've been dying for?

Don't judge me. You do it too. It's a proven fact that a woman knows within a minute of meeting a man whether or not she'd sleep with him, and I've known Dr. Black a whole hell of a lot longer than a minute.

Okay, it might not technically be a proven fact, but still. I thought about that shit.

A lot.

It's the glasses.

"So, what are your plans tonight, Isabella?" Dr. Black asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and completely invading my personal space.

"Um, probably sitting around the house reading fanfiction and rearranging my furniture?" It comes out like a question, although I'm not so sure why.

"That's a shame...pretty girl like yourself..."

Holy mother... Is Dr. Black _hitting_ on me?

My soggy sandwich decides to break in half at that very moment, just as I have it poised near my mouth to take a bite. A huge chunk of juicy chicken salad falls from the wet bread, landing between my boobs, trailing down my body, and landing with a sick plopping sound on my lap.

"Shit, let me get that," Dr. Black mumbles.

He comes at me with a wadded-up excuse for a napkin. I watch as his hand hovers over my crotch, where said chicken salad has landed. I jerk to attention as his hand descends, jumping out of the chair so fast that his hand smacks against my cooter in the process.

Oh, my God. He just cooter-punched me.

"Oh, my God! You just cooter-punched me!" I holler.

Eric is laughing so hard he has tears pouring down his cheeks. His carefully applied eyeliner runs in watery trails down his blush-laden face. I glare at him, yanking the napkin from Dr. Black's limp hand as I clean the chicken salad from my scrub pants.

Dr. Black is mumbling and cursing himself below his breath. He grabs a washcloth from a drawer near the break room sink and holds it under the faucet. He comes at me again with the rag, but I throw up my hands in self-defense. He eventually pauses and sheepishly hands me the wash cloth.

"Thanks," I grumble.

Everything is a little awkward and weird after that, if things weren't awkward and weird enough before. I'm cleaning my crotch, Eric is silently laughing as he wipes tears from his face, and Dr. Black is shifting where he stands, gazing at me shyly like a little boy on the playground about to ask the pigtailed blonde to be his girlfriend.'

Uh oh.

No...please...no...

"Bella, I was wondering," he begins, and I know I'm fucked. "Would you like to go out tonight? Maybe dinner and a movie?"

Eric coughs so loudly that my gaze breaks from Dr. Black's nervous grin to Eric's fire-engine-red face. I dart around Dr. Black, slapping Eric on the back as hard as I can, knowing that this is exactly NOT what you want to do when someone possibly has something lodged in his throat.

Hey, if he were truly choking, he wouldn't be making so much damn noise.

"Oh, I don't know," I respond, once Eric catches his breath. "Isn't that breaking some sort of, uh, Doctor/Nurse code or something? No fraternizing?"

"Bella, you know there's no such thing," he tsks, gathering his nerves and shit to shoot me a breezy smile. "So, what do you say? You don't have any plans, I don't have any plans, there's that Magic Mike movie playing at the old theater..."

Magic Mike? This man is seriously taking me to watch Channing Tatum dance around in thong? While on a date?

The word 'yes' is out of my mouth before Eric even catches his breath.

That's what brings me here.

To the Olive Garden.

I've got my phone in hand as I plop down on a bench. I pull up my notepad app and label it 'Reasons Why I Shouldn't Date Dr. Black.' I quickly type in reason number one.

_1) he suggested meeting me at the restaurant instead of picking me up at my house._

I'm unsure why he didn't want to pick me up at my house. Maybe he doesn't want to see where his most irresponsible nurse dwells after hours, or maybe he wants to avoid Rose, the most nosey person in town. Either way, he is unknowingly having points deducted from his ass.

_2) he's 'taking' me (I actually took myself) to The Olive Garden instead of driving me to Atlanta to a nicer restaurant. _

Okay, I told Edward that I'm not a vain person, and I'm not. Not really. However, if you want to win a girl's heart take her somewhere nice on the first date.

Nicer than Olive Garden.

Not that there's anything wrong with the Olive Garden. It _is_ a fuckawesome restaurant.

But still...

_3) he's already twenty minutes late._

"Dr. Black, Dr. Black, Dr. Black," I chide aloud, causing the woman sitting beside me on the bench to cast me a perplexed expression. "If you weren't so hot in those geek glasses...and so feasible...touchable... and just...here! Why can't Edward be here? Why? Why?"

I look at the woman sitting beside me as I utter my last 'why.' Her eyes widen and she has the whole 'this girl is touched' look going on. Luckily enough for her, the pager in her hand goes off, giving her a good excuse to abandon the crazy young woman sitting beside her on the bench.

I heave a massive sigh once I'm alone. My eyes dart around at the lingering crowd outside the restaurant. Happy couples, young and old, some with children, some without stand near me, laughing and talking quietly among themselves. A sharp stab of jealousy rushes through me and I wish that were me. I wish I were one of the happy couples, laughing and talking, or possibly running my fingers through my child's hair as I gaze wistfully down at him or her.

I'm young, but I'm not getting any younger. I want to find him. I want to find my soul mate, just as my grandparents found one another, just as my parents found one another. I want it all. I want first dates and young romance. I want church bells and a swollen belly. I want faces smeared with peanut butter and time outs in the corner. Are these dreams possible? Are they possible with someone like Jacob Black?

Tears begin to prick my eyes, but they're forgotten as the familiar sound of my Facebook Messenger alert goes off on the phone in my hands. I take a deep breath and glance down, smiling as I see 'TonyMazen69' on the screen. Swiping my finger across the screen, I read the message.

_Hey, beautiful. Just wanted to check in and see how your night is going. Doing anything exciting? - TonyMazen69_

Should I tell him the truth? Should I tell him I'm on a date? I gnaw on my bottom lip, only questioning myself about it for a moment. Of course I should tell him. We're friends. We're not in a relationship. It's not like I'm cheating on him.

So why does it feel like I am?

_Dr. Black asked me on a date. - SwanLake_

There's a long pause, and when I say long, I'm talking five minutes. I begin to worry that he's not going to respond, when I see his name pop up again.

_And you accepted? - TonyMazen69_

_Yes. Is that wrong? - SwanLake_

_Why would it be wrong? - TonyMazen69_

_Because it feels wrong. It feels so very wrong. - SwanLake_

_Why? - TonyMazen69_

_Because I wish it were you I were sitting here waiting on. I wish it were you taking me to dinner and a movie. I wish he were you, but he's not. - SwanLake_

Too late to back out now. I've put myself out there and thrown him another bone. Another lengthy pause, and then...

_Baby, if it were me, I wouldn't keep you waiting. I need to talk to you, and I mean REALLY talk to you. Tonight. How do you feel about...Skype? - TonyMazen69_

* * *

Shameless Hoodfabulous Fanfiction Confession: Sometimes I beg for my readers to vote for me...like I am now. 'Fanfiction Addicts and Review Whores' is up for fic of the week at TLS! Thank you insanemum for rec'ing me!

I would flove your vote!

Check out the Dirty Talkin' Edward contest (author search that name). Jonesn and I teamed up for a collab that may or may not be in the contest. There's some good stories posted! Check it out!

I wonder what's going through Edward's head right about now?

Reviews = lurve.

Peace,

Hoodie


	10. Chapter 10: Exposure

**Chapter Ten: Exposure**

**EPOV**

Bella, the girl I've chatted to on Facebook and fucking_ fallen_ for in the past three weeks, is on a date with Dr. Mother Fucking Feelgood.

_Fuck._

I pace around my living room, glaring at my laptop screen as I silently curse Dr. Jacob Black. I can't blame him for asking Bella out. Not really. She is beautiful...and witty, and smart, and has the whole 'dry humor' thing going on.

Fuck!

It's not like she's betrayed me. I've only lightly flirted with her, too worried that I might scare her off by laying it on too thick. I've been waiting for her to take the next step, not sure myself _what_ that next step may be, but we've never gone very far, only chatting about sex and domination that one time, and definitely not chatted about the future...her future, my future...our future?

I stop pacing, close my eyes and take a deep breath. _Our_ future? Did I really just think that? Did I really just imagine a future with this girl...with this girl I hardly know, a girl I've never spoken to on the phone, a girl who's never seen my face and doesn't even know my last name, other than the pseudonym I choose to go by?

Yes. I imagined it. I imagined a future with Bella.

My eyes pop open and realization consumes me. She thinks we're friends. She doesn't understand that I've developed feelings for her, feelings that I've unconsciously been hiding because of a woman from my past. I've guarded my heart...too closely, and now she's on a date, a date with a prestigious man. She's on a date with a doctor for crying out loud.

I need someone. I need someone to talk to; a confidant. Someone who won't judge me for showing my weaknesses and concerns.

Definitely not Emmett.

I pull my cell from my pocket and scroll through until I find my beta's name. Pressing the phone to my ear, I begin to pace again, shooting the death glare at my laptop screen each time I pass it by.

"Eduardo," Jasper's slow, Southern voice drawls from the phone. "How's it goin'? Haven't heard from ya in a while. You got that new chapter ready for me to beta?"

"I need help," I admit, my voice sounding weak and shaky to my own ears. "This has nothing to do with writing. Well, yeah. It _sort of _has _everything_ to do with writing. Wait. Not really. Jasper, I think I'm in love."

"Whoa, slow down, buddy," Jasper advises in a whisper, the phone sounding muffled and distorted for a moment. "Let me shut the door. You know how M&M likes to eavesdrop. Nosy woman."

I sigh, rolling my eyes at the mention of his girlfriend 'M&M,' whose real name is Monica Maria. Jasper calls her M&M for short. I refuse to call her by that stupid nickname.

Almost as stupid as Jazzypoo.

As crazy as Monica is, she's equally as hot. Standing around five-three with sweet curves, creamy brown skin, and a killer rack, she's a true vision. The two recently decided to move in together after meeting several months ago at some smoky, seedy bar while line dancing.

Yes. Line dancing.

Apparently, Monica noticed him doing the 'Boot Scootin' Boogie' or some shit and fell in love. The girl is psycho-obsessed with Jasper.

That's probably because she's a psycho.

She makes Amanda Bynes look like Santa Claus.

Monica is seriously deranged. The chick could channel Kathy Bates from 'Misery.' If Jasper doesn't answer the phone for a couple of days I immediately worry that he's tied to a bed somewhere getting the shit beat out of him with a sledgehammer while Monica stands over him, berating him for cursing from the pain.

Why did I call Jasper again? Oh. That's right. For relationship advice.

Epic fail.

"You know what, Jasper?" I hedge. "Nevermind. You're probably busy with Mon..."

"Naw," he interrupts, the distinct sound of water sloshing around in the background meeting my ears. "I just need to shut the door for a minute. She's...she's weird about me being on the phone sometimes."

She's weird about him being on the phone sometimes? She's weird in fucking general.

"What are you doing man? Washing dishes?" I ask as the sound of water splashing around grows louder before eventually fading away.

"I, uh," he stutters. "I really can't talk about it now, man. What's up? Tell me what's goin' on."

I shake my head in confusion before quickly giving him the details about what's going on the past three weeks. I tell him how we began chatting and how my feels have quickly developed. Then I tell him about her date with Dr. Feelgood.

"So she's on a date right now?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"And you asked her to Skype you?"

"Yes."

"What'd she say?" he questions.

"Nothing," I hiss in frustration, throwing my free hand in the air. "She's said nothing since I asked her to Skype me."

"Maybe the elusive Dr. Feelgood finally showed up for the date," he chuckles, the thought instantly pissing me off even more. "Don't worry about that guy, man. Women...they deduct points for things like that."

"Deduct points?"

"Oh, yeah," he muses wisely, more water sloshing around in the background. "Points. Late for a date? Point deduction. Forget to compliment her new haircut? Point deduction. Women...women are ruthless."

He would know.

"What do I do now?" I ask.

"Now...you wait," he drawls. "She'll message you back, man."

"I'm feel like I'm losing my mind," I confess. "Maybe I'm moving too fast."

"Look, you like her, right?" he drawls.

"Yeah. Yeah, a lot actually."

"Then you're not moving too fast."

I can imagine him shrugging, as more water sloshes in the background.

"Are you in the bathtub, Jazz?" I ask, immediately feeling creeped out at the thought of Jazz naked in a bathtub, talking to me while his schlong floats around in the water.

Smiling. Because that guy smiles all the time.

"Uh, yeah," he admits. "M&M's practicing her photography and I'm her subject...again."

"I didn't know Mon was a photographer."

"She's not."

Insert silence.

I shudder.

Suddenly, a female voice breaks the uncomfortable quietness.

"Jasper, why is this door locked?!"

Fuck. I can hear her screaming in the background. The tale-tale sound of her tiny fist beating against a wooden door rings in my ears. Jasper's voice fills with panic and alarm as he ends the call, but not before I hear the last words coming out of her mouth.

"You better have your boots on when I get in there! Are your legs hanging out of the tub? If those boots get wet I'll _murder_ you!"

I shudder again as I disconnect the call, remembering the time Jasper drunk-texted me, confessing that Mon makes him wear his cowboy boots everywhere, claiming she has a slight cowboy obsession.

When I say she wants him to wear them everywhere, I mean _everywhere. _

I toss my useless cell on the desk, glaring at the computer screen once more. She's still failed to respond. My heart sinks in my chest and I know I've ruined whatever friendship I've forged with this woman by crossing the line, asking her to Skype me.

Weary with regret and exhaustion I trudge to my bedroom and fall on the bed. After tossing and turning for a couple of hours I eventually fall into a restless sleep, my dreams full of a faceless man kissing my girl...kissing my Bella.

~h00rs~

I awake with a start, shooting straight up in bed and glancing around the room in confusion. I'm partially clothed, wearing the same pair of jeans I'd worn the day before, although my shirt is mysteriously absent. The window beside my bed remains dark, and after a brief glance at the digital clock I find that it's almost three am.

The hour of the dead.

Like my cold dead heart.

A dry chuckle escapes my lips and I yawn and stretch, shaking my head at my own dramatic thoughts. I've always found myself odd, maybe even a little dramatic, but I tell myself it's because I'm a writer and we're all a little freaking weird.

I try to think of these things as I shuffle to the kitchen and chug a bottle of water. I try to think of anything,_ anything_ other than her, but she refuses to allow me to ignore her, because as I stand in that kitchen I hear it. I hear my Facebook Messenger alerting me of an incoming message.

I choke on the water that runs down my throat, tossing the useless bottle in the kitchen sink as I cough and sputter. Stumbling to the desk, I grab the phone, breathing a sigh of relief as I see her name.

And messages. I see message after message after message.

A grin crosses my face as I read them. Her humor still evident as she breaks down what seems to be the most horrible date in existence.

What straight man takes a girl to see Magic Mike on a first date anyway?

I walk around the living room for a moment in an attempt to mellow myself out, but find myself strutting around instead, my swagger only obvious to me, as I am in the apartment alone gangsta leaning like a pimp.

I cannot contain the swag. This girl, this beautiful girl, went on a date with a single, successful doctor, only to come home and message me later.

Score.

I drop down in front of my computer and stare at the screen once it's lit up. A smile plays on my lips at the last line.

_I guess you're asleep? Too late for the Skype date? It's a shame. I'm pretty drunk and wearing my pink negligee. - SwanLake_

Sweet baby Jesus. At the mention of the negligee my cock stands at attention.

_I'm up! I mean, I'm here! - TonyMazen69_

Oh, I'm up. I'm definitely up. My cock feels like a steel rod in my wrinkled jeans.

When she messages me back I immediately realize she's drunk.

_Do you like me, Edward? Cause I like you. I like you a lot. - SwanLake_

_I like you too, Bella. Why do you think I want to Skype? Why do you think I was so pissed off about your date that I contemplated driving, flying, hell, I'd even WALK to wherever you are, just because I wanted to kick your date's ass for leaving you waiting? I want to kick his ass for asking you out. Yes, I'd say it's obvious that I like you. - TonyMazen69_

There's a long bloated pause before she answers.

_Give me your Skype info. - SwanLake_

My heat thumps erratically in my chest. My eyes widen and I'm doing it. I'm giving this girl my info and waiting for her call and I'm so fucking anxious to see her beautiful face that I don't even realize I probably look like shit until she's staring back at me through the screen; staring at my disheveled hair and shirtless chest.

Fuck.

I can't even worry about myself. I can't worry about anything but the way she looks. Her makeup is smeared slightly under her eyes, giving her a dark, seductive look. Her long brown locks are sleep-rumbled and she wears a thin, pink, silk negligee, so thin I can see her hard nipples straining against the fabric as she stares blankly into the screen. Her full lips are parted slightly, and a look of astonishment dances across her features.

"I fell asleep," I mumble lamely as I run my fingers through my hair, trying to tame it, but failing miserably. "I guess I look like shit."

"You're beautiful."

I chuckle at her words, at being called something I've never been called before, at being called a word meant for a woman. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and blushes a delicious shade of pink. The color travels from her cheeks, and down her neck, disappearing in her cleavage that she so courteously displays as she leans slightly closer to the screen, swaying in her seat.

"You're the one who's beautiful, Bella," I admit, smiling as she blushes deeper. "So beautiful."

"This is so weird," she admits, pretending to ignore my words as she leans to the side and reaches for something. "Finally talking to you, face to face so to speak."

The thin strap of her negligee slips from one shoulder. The fabric skirts down over her creamy skin and I see it.

I see one full pert breast...a mound of flesh that I'd love to caress, and one rosy nipple that I'm desperate to suck between my teeth.

* * *

Shameful Hoodfabulous Fanfiction Confession: I write about people I know. I usually twist their characters into something majorly dysfunctional. M&M? Totally real, although she's completely mentally stable...but she does have a slight cowboy obsession! I love you, Mon!

Got a confession for me?

Reviews = lurve. I've failed at answering reviews for a while now. Two wips makes it difficult to answer reviews, but I do love and appreciate each of you who take the time to leave me a confession or chapter review. Thank you

Peace,

Hoodie


	11. Chapter 11: Awakenings

**Chapter Eleven: Awakenings**

**BPOV**

A pounding headache and the lingering heat of a mid-day sun is what I awake to.

I moan and raise up in bed, vigorously rubbing my sleepy eyes. I glance around the room, noticing the blinds open and the curtains pulled back. Oddly enough, the window is wide open, which is crazy, because I'm slightly paranoid of the neighborhood kids sneaking a peek of me changing clothes ... or dancing around my room naked, channeling Miley Cyrus twerking.

Hey, I'm an only child and had to amuse myself growing up. Don't judge me.

The room is cluttered, which isn't that unusual. I've always been a bit of a slob. The clothes I wore from the night before are slung sporadically across the room on various pieces of furniture. There's empty wine coolers taking up residence on every available space, including my dresser and chest of drawers ... all over the surface of the new computer desk I recently bought just so I could move my laptop into the privacy of my room to converse with Edward.

I grumble to myself, struggling to remember the night before, but it's mostly a blur. My feet hit the floor and I hear a crash, the sound of breaking glass and sloshing liquid. I glance up, staring wide-eyed through my open window to meet the eyes of Liam Thompson, the teenage boy who lives next door, standing just a couple of yards away. There's apples and oranges rolling down the driveway past his feet, and two empty bags in his hands as he stares at me slack-jawed. I glance down in confusion and scream yet again when I find myself butt-ass naked, the pink negligée nowhere to be found.

"Stop staring at me, you little perv!" I yell through the open window, placing my hands this way and that, trying to cover my cooter, then my boobs, then my cooter once more with my flailing hands.

The boy never moves, not until I give up trying to cover myself and spring forward, tits bouncing as I dart across the room. The teenage kid takes a step back, slipping on a banana, ironically enough. He lurches backwards onto his mother's brand new car, setting the car alarm off. The sight of him falling to the ground alarms me, but not enough to stop myself from yanking at the blinds, arms in the air, my tits on full display for Liam's ten-year old brother, Noah, to ogle, now that he's decided to arrive to the scene of the crime on his green Hulk bicycle.

That's how their mother finds them: one unconscious in the driveway, surrounded by produce, one sitting on his bike openly gaping at me, and me, dancing around in front of my window, my tits jiggling around as I struggle with the blinds. She starts screaming 'Bella Swan' over and over, shaking a tightly clasped fist in my direction as though I were purposely flashing her two little demon kids.

"Bella, what the hell is going on in here?" I hear Rose ask from somewhere behind me.

"Freaking pervy neighbor kids," I huff, yanking the blinds so forcefully that they dislodge from where they're perched above the window, crashing to the floor. "Who opened this window anyway?"

"You don't remember?" she laughs, tossing me the wrinkled comforter from my bed.

Rose pulls the window down and tugs the curtains to cover the glass, but not before shooting Mrs. Thompson and her kids the bird, smirking when the woman begins cursing even louder.

"No, not really," I sigh, stumbling my way to the bathroom. "I remember wine coolers. Lots and lots of wine coolers."

"Is that all?" she asks coyly, and with a grin as she picks up a large bronze bottle, still swathed in brown paper. "I found you drunker than Cooter Brown, sitting half-naked in front of your laptop at five am chatting with some random guy on Skype!"

It only took those few words for the night before to come flooding back.

~h00rs~

I was beyond pissed.

I waited and waited on Dr. Jacob Black, glaring at each individual who dared to enter the illustrious Olive Garden, narrowing my eyes even more when they'd shoot me a perplexed, uneasy glance before slipping inside. The little round UFO looking pager was clasped tightly in my hand, so tightly I thought it might break. And to top it all off, I'd pm'd Edward concerning my frustrations ... and he returned my pm, with an offer to Skype.

I didn't respond.

The truth was, I didn't know _how_ to respond. I liked Edward ... I really, really liked Edward, but he wasn't here, and even if he was, what did I really know about him? He was a guy on the internet that sometimes made me laugh and sometimes pissed me off. Since meeting him I'd done nothing but compare him to every man I knew. None of them added up ... but they were _here_. They were here, within easy reach, and he wasn't.

I sat there feeling miserable, hurt, and confused, yet didn't leave. I stupidly wanted to give Jacob a chance to show up.

Heaving a great sigh, I stood, smoothing out my dress, cursing Jacob below my breath. It was my full intention to hold my head up high, enter the restaurant, and treat myself to a fuckawesome bottle, yes _bottle_, of Rosato.

I was gonna endless soup and salad the hell up outta Olive Garden.

Solo.

I shelled out the big bucks, a whopping forty dollars for one bottle, polishing it off by myself with a smile on my face. I toasted the family beside me, letting out a huge belch that set their toddler into screams of horror. I was halfway through the second bottle, on my second bowl of yummy breadsticks, and slowly peeling my fake eyelashes from my eyelids when Dr. Black decided to grace me with his presence.

"Fuck you for living here," I slurred, pressing the Rosato to my lips and taking a heavy swig.

"Bella?" he said hesitantly, looking too freaking handsome for a man who was an hour late showing up for a date _he_ arranged.

Nerd glasses? Check. Button-up cocoa colored shirt that perfectly matched his eyes? Check. Tight chinos that emphasized every curve and vein in his ...

"Holy tight slacks, Batman," I laughed, nodding to his crotch. "I hope the crotch in those pants is double-stitched. That bad boy looks like he's ready to pop out any second."

I smirked as his eyes followed my head nod. His brazen cheeks flushed a slight pink. He slid into the booth and opened his mouth, but I just couldn't shut up. My verbal diarrhea was in full swing, spurred on by his tardiness and the sweet wine.

"There should be a disclaimer on those pants," I snickered as his cheeks blushed even redder. "Is that why you asked me on a movie date? Thought you'd take me to see a bunch of naked guys swinging their cocks around, and then what? You were gonna take me back to your place so you could Channing all over my Tatum?"

"Do what to your _what_?" he asked, just as the waitress arrived, smiling brightly at the two of us, her smile wavering as she noticed my watery eyes and swaying body.

"You know you want to Channing all over my Tatum," I smirked, nodding my head knowingly as I polished off the last of the Rosato.

I frowned at the bottle, holding it upside down and sighing when a few drops splattered across the table. The waitress gasped and I sat the bottle down, slumping back against the booth in disappointment.

"Keep 'em coming, sister," I told the waitress, earning two pencil-thin eyebrows to be raised into her hairline. "This guy wants me to shuck his corn later. I'm gonna have to be good and drunk to do that. He's an hour late for our date, and assplay isn't really my style."

"You're an hour late for a date?" the waitress asks, her eyebrows dropping and eyes narrowing, my drunken state instantly forgiven and forgotten.

Jacob starts to respond, but the waitress interrupts him with a 'can I take your order?' and a severe eye roll. Jacob quickly scans the menu, ordering some sort of steak kabob thing, which I think is stupid considering we're in an Italian restaurant and not the local steak house, but whatever. I roll my eyes along with the waitress who disappears, returning briefly with Jacob's longneck and a scowl. She gives me a 'dump this idiot' look before walking away, shaking her head in disgust the entire time.

"So, why are you so late?" I bluntly ask, shoving a breadstick in my mouth, hoping the carbs will somehow soak up the alcohol and sober me up for intelligent adult conversation we were engaged in.

Hey. It all made sense in my head.

"And why did you not pick me up?" I continued, suddenly anxious for answers. "And why in God's name did you pick a Magic Mike movie to take me to? Which, for your information, we will never make it to on time, considering the movie now starts in less than ten minutes."

I gave my watch a blurry glance as I shoveled the rest of the breadstick into my mouth, chewing away happily, cause damn. It's breadsticks. When does breadsticks not make _anyone_ happy?

"Now I'm eating my feelings because of you," I blurted around my mouthful of bread, picking up the wine bottle and waving it around, "and drinking them too! What an asshole! You're gonna turn me into a single, morbidly obese lush, you freaking jerk!"

"I'm sorry," he muttered, sheepishly glancing into my eyes. "I wanted to take you to a movie you'd enjoy, and I overheard you and Eric talking about Magic Mike a couple of weeks ago. I just wanted to make you happy."

"No, you heard Eric going on and on about Magic Mike," I corrected. "He was pissed they didn't release it on gay pride day. That's why he burned all his Matthew McConaughey movies and asked you if he could take some vacation days to go protest the Avengers."

Jacob gaped at me in confusion, but I couldn't blame him. I wasn't even making sense to myself.

"I didn't pick you up because I wanted to give you an easy out," he explained, shaking his head at my strange rambling. "Just in case you felt uncomfortable and wanted to ditch me, you could. I know you're not really into me like I wish you were. I know you've met someone ..."

"Met someone?" I asked, sobering up a bit. "I haven't _met_ anyone."

Not technically.

"Thank God," he sighed, smiling at the miffed waitress as she arrived and dropped his plate in front of him. "I was so sure you had. You're smiling a lot more nowadays. You're not as snarky as you were before. You never mention a boyfriend, so I was hoping I was wrong. That's why I asked you on the date. I never thought you'd actually agree. I'm so sorry I'm late, Bella. There was an accident on Highway ..."

He droned on and on, mumbling his apologies and muttering excuses, but I couldn't focus, because his words slowly seeped in. I _was_ happier since 'meeting' Edward, although we never technically 'met.' I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment before blurting out the words, interrupting Jacob as he continued to gab.

"I met a guy online," I admitted, smiling in relief as the weight of the confession lifted from my chest. "I haven't told ... anyone about him. I'm not sure why. I guess I'm a little scared of everyone's judgment? My father would flip out. He thinks there's nothing but murderers lurking around online, looking for innocent girls to prey on before they hack them to pieces. I haven't told Rose because she's dealing with some ... problems of her own. I'm sorry, Jacob. I shouldn't have agreed to this date. I really, _really_ like this guy."

~h00rs~

I arrived home at nearly midnight, having finished chatting with Jacob about work and such, only discussing light topics. I was still white-girl wasted after the meal, stumbling from the booth to my feet. Jacob insisted on driving me home and I agreed. He didn't argue with me when I begged him to stop at the county line store. I dipped inside, bought the last six-pack of strawberry-kiwi wine coolers they had, and a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor, wrapped in a brown paper bag because, hey, I'm one classy bitch.

Rose wasn't home when I got there. I remembered she had a date with some guy she met at the salon. It was a desperate attempt to prove to herself that she wasn't a lesbian, and I could only pray that he didn't have herpes, gonorrhea, or syphilis.

I finished off the wine coolers while bopping around to vintage N Sync songs in my bedroom. I raised the window as the alcohol kicked in at full force, causing my skin to become heated. I don't remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking up with Edward on my mind. My fingers flew across my phone screen as I sat on my bed in nothing but a pink negligée that I recognized as Rose's. It was a little big on me, since her chest was three times the size of mine, and the straps constantly slipped down my shoulders as I messaged Edward.

I spied my untouched malt liquor as I waited for him to respond. Beaming, I crossed the room, reaching for the bottle, when my phone made a dinging sound. Bottle forgotten, I quickly responded, and the next thing I know we're on Skype.

And he was beautiful.

He wasn't just beautiful. He was breathtaking. The color of his hair was an odd rust color. It was wild with sleep, disheveled and sexy. There were sleep lines across the side of his sharp, slightly stubble-covered jaw. His tongue swept across his bottom lip as I tore my eyes from his bare chest and meet those light green orbs, surrounded by lush lashes. My breath hitched in my chest and I confessed his beauty, earning a hardy chuckle.

The laughter flustered me. I felt a blush spread from my chest and up my neck. I dropped my eyes from his and reached for the liquor bottle.

I'm not gonna waste good damn liquor.

I heard a sharp intake of air and I glanced back at the screen, pressing the open bottle to my lips and taking a heavy pull. Edward was staring back at me, his perfect lips slightly parted. I quirked an eyebrow, noticing his eyes dart between mine and my ...

"My boob!" I giggled, throwing my head back and snorting in laughter.

I took another swig, leaning in my chair like a gangsta, before setting the bottle back on the desk. I began to fumble with the too-big negligée, snorting as the other strap slipped from my shoulder in the process and exposed both of my breasts.

"Bella," I heard him whisper, and I froze, gazing back up at the laptop screen.

His voice was hypnotizing. I didn't notice it before, when he first spoke, but it was. It was utterly mesmerizing.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, averting his eyes. "I'm a selfish bastard, sitting here openly gaping at your gorgeous breasts."

"You can totally check out my boobs," I slurred in awe, earning a quiet chuckle from the other side of the screen, although he still wouldn't look up. "It's been a while since anyone complemented me that way."

"Dr. Feel Good doesn't tell you?" he asked, pretending to study something beside him as I quietly slipped the straps back over my shoulders. "He doesn't tell you how beautiful you are?"

"I told you before," I reminded him, tapping the laptop screen in irritation, "no one has ever called me beautiful besides you. Hey, you can look now."

Edward glanced back at me cautiously, his eyes struggling to remain on my face instead of my erect nipples, which caused me to goofy grin, considering I was having hard time keeping my eyes off his chest as well. We sat there for a moment just gazing at each other with silly smiles on our faces. It was me who finally spoke, breaking the silence before things had a chance of becoming too awkward.

"So, that's your place?" I asked, grabbing the bottle and taking a swig as I nodded at the screen. "Looks swanky."

"Eh. It's home, I guess," he shrugged, taking a second to look around the room he sat in before meeting my eyes once more. "And that's your place? Where do you live?"

"Georgia," I boasted, cause damn right I was proud to be from Georgia. "Forks, Georgia."

"Is that anywhere near Atlanta?"

"Not far," I confirmed, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention as his eyes roamed my face.

"I have a buddy who lives in Atlanta," he mused with a smile.

"Really?" I asked, setting the empty liquor bottle on the desk.

"Yup," he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head. "I visit him quite often, actually."

"You do?" I whispered, the thought of him being so close by absolutely terrifying and thrilling, all at once.

"Yup," he continued, shooting me a sideways grin. "In fact, I'll be visiting Atlanta _very_ soon. In just a few weeks in fact. I'm not staying with my buddy though. I'll be staying at the Hilton. That's where the _Moonlight_ meet-up is being held."

I said nothing in response, but my eyes inadvertently darted to the stack of papers sitting near the laptop. There sat the printed receipts and confirmation from the Hilton, the hotel I would soon be staying at, in just a matter of weeks, when I attend the _Moonlight_ meet-up.

* * *

Shameful Hoodfabulous Confession: It's been a long time since I updated this story. I guess you already knew that confession though, huh?

Hope you like it! :)

Dont forget to check out the Dark and Twisted contest. There's five great entries in so far and they're soooo good. Find the contest link under my favorite authors list.

Got a confession?

Reviews=lurve

Hoodie


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